Page 74 of Accepting Love

“My grandfather made me stand in the corner,” she blurts out as if she’s just now remembered this detail.

She jumps up from the seat and spins to face me. “When I got frustrated, he made me stand in the corner.”

I’m speechless. I think she’s working something out in her head. It’s not necessarily a bad thing. I slowly lean forward, setting my elbows on my knees, not wanting to disrupt her.

She turns and stomps toward the corner. A random corner in the room. She lifts her hand and touches it as if it might burn her, jerking her fingers back a moment later and rubbing them.

I rise. I might need to intervene here.

She faces the corner head on now before stepping tentatively closer until her toes touch the walls. She leans her forehead into the space and plants her hands flat on the walls near her head.

I wait. Seconds tick by. I’m starting to panic, but I don’t move. She doesn’t look as freaked out. In fact, I watch her shoulders rise and fall with her breaths. She’s gradually coming down from whatever ledge she was on.

Eventually, she takes deep cleansing breaths. Lots of them. Her body relaxes. She looks exhausted. When she pushes away from the wall, she remains there for several more long excruciating seconds.

Finally, she turns around. Her brow is furrowed as she shuffles back to the piano. She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t say a word. She sits back on the bench as if nothing happened and resumes playing.

The piece is brilliant. Like an angel. As she plays, my legs won’t hold me up, so I resume sitting. I watch her. I love watching her. She’s like a piece of art. She’s not Little. She’s not an adult. She’s a performer. As usual, it doesn’t matter that she’s wearing Little clothes. It doesn’t seem to matter that she’s got the new necklace and bracelet on. Neither are bothering her.

She plays for another hour, seamlessly, one piece after another.

By the time she closes the lid over the keys, I’m wrung out from the emotional journey her music takes me on.

She stands and turns around. Her eyes pop open as if she’s surprised to see me. “You’re still here.”

I nod and reach out a hand, beckoning her.

She comes to me, and I pull her sideways across my lap. I tuck her head against my shoulder and rock her. “That was beautiful, Caro.”

“Thank you, Daddy.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened in the corner?” I ask carefully.

She hesitates a few moments and then lifts her head to look toward the corner. “Oh, yeah.”

She forgot that part?

I rub her thigh.

“I haven’t thought about that in years. My grandfather used to make me stand in the corner whenever I had a tantrum while I was practicing.”

“You had tantrums?” It’s hard to imagine.

She giggled. “I guess. Sometimes. More like me getting frustrated with myself when I couldn’t get the music right. When I was really small it was hard. I could hear the music in my head but my fingers were too little to play it right. I would get upset with myself.”

“And your grandfather punished you?” That seems harsh.

She looks at me, brows furrowed. “No. He wasn’t punishing me. He just wanted me to calm down. He said if I eliminated all stimuli by staring at the wall, I could center myself. Slow my breathing. Calm down so I could try again.”

“Oh.” Interesting tactic. “I guess it worked?”

“I think I did it often. I just haven’t remembered that in years.”

“The timeout corner in the kitchen probably jogged your memory,” I point out. It makes more sense now.

She nods slowly.

“How old were you, angel?”

---