Page 32 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

“Oh,” I breathe.

“You didn’t tell us the orchestra was performing Chopin this summer,” she continues, letting out a light, disdainful chuckle. “But I told your father that you must have been too busy to mention it, because you know that we love his nocturnes so much.”

I close my eyes, pressing my free hand to my temple.

I have to tell her the truth. If I don’t, they’re going to board a plane to Chicago and very quickly discover that I’m not there.

Truthfully, I can’t recall ever being in a position where I had to disappoint my parents. I don’t really know how to do it. I’vealways been well-behaved and exceptionally talented, which is everything they’ve ever wanted in a child.

I figure the best way to do it, then, is to cut right to the chase and rip off the Band-Aid.

“Mom… I’m not performing.”

The silence that follows seems oddly sharp, like a knife poised above my head.

“Not performing? What on earth do you mean?”

“I…” My throat tightens. There’s no good way to say this. “I’m on leave. Medical leave.”

“Leave?” she repeats, the word dripping with disapproval. “Leave from the orchestra? Why? Alina, what are you talking about?”

I swallow hard. I try to remind myself that I’m a grown woman. That I’ve been an independent, fully capable adult for many years now. That I have no reason to feel so small and stupid in my parents’ eyes. That it’s foolish to think they might love me less for this.

Unfortunately, none of those reminders really stick. It’s easier said than done to erase a lifetime of being a people pleaser.

“It’s complicated,” I answer.

The line crackles with tension before her voice slices through it.

“Complicated? Alina, we have spent years—decades, to be exact—sacrificing everything to help you succeed in this career. What do you mean by ‘complicated’?”

I can hear my father’s voice rumbling in the background as a low murmur of concern. His stern, thickly-accented voice echoes in the back of my mind, looping through memories of cold encouragement and high expectations.

I take a shaky breath. “I’m having some issues with my hands, Mom. It was bad enough that the conductor and one of themanagers picked up on it, and so they encouraged me to take a medical leave so that I can seek treatment and rest.”

Despite my clear, concise explanation, my mother scoffs as if I’ve just told her I’m taking the entire summer off because I had a brief headache.

“Yourhands? What happened to them? What did you do?”

“I didn’tdoanything. It’s from playing too much. Years of lessons, years of rehearsals… it caught up to me.”

There’s a long pause before she speaks again, her tone harsher than I’ve ever heard it—at least, while directed at me.

“That shouldn’t have happened, Alina. Not if you were practicing the way your father taught you.”

“Well, it did happen,” I snap, surprising myself. I’ve never talked back to my parents, not even during my teenage years. “Do you think Iwantthis, Mom? That I’mhappyabout it?”

Still, her voice rises. “This is your career, Alina! Do you have any idea what this means? How this looks? You’re supposed to be performing with the best orchestra in the country, not taking a break out of nowhere!”

“It’s not a break,” I mutter. “It’s a medical leave. Also, I didn’t have a choice. Diana Crane herself insisted that I take a step back.”

Both my parents know of Diana, given her fame in the classical music world. Still, I should be counting myself lucky that they don’t know her personally, otherwise they might bang down her door themselves and demand a more thorough explanation.

When it comes to ambition and success, my parents know no boundaries.

“Of course you had a choice,” she fires back. “You could have kept pushing through it, like your father and I always encouraged you to do. Do you think we’ve made it this far in life without sacrifices? Success implies a certain tolerance of pain, Alina.”

“I’ve been sacrificing my whole life!” I argue back, not caring when my tone reaches a volume that I hardly ever resort to. “I’ve never done anything but work myself to the bone, even at the expense of a normal childhood. Every moment of my life has been devoted to mastering the violin, and now I don’t—”

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