The following week, he went to the library. In the spot where the column usually ran, the local paper had printed a short note.
To Our Readers
After the series ended, the newspaper received a letter from the daughter herself. She is now married and has a child. She had been told years ago that her father had moved abroad. She believed no one knew where he was and that she had no way to reach him.
As she read the childhood memories described in the column, she began to wonder whether the writer might be her father and contacted the newspaper. Through the newspaper, father and daughter were able to get in touch. They have since met again for the first time in twelve and a half years.
Below it was a short message from the father.
If I hadn’t found that letter that day, I don’t think I would have seen my daughter again.
I don’t know who wrote it. But without that letter, I don’t think I would have tried to reach her. I’m grateful.
He read to the end. They found each other. He closed the paper. The next Wednesday, he got to the piano studio earlier than usual.
Her lesson ended and she stepped into the hall.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
He was about to say something when she checked the time.
“Sorry. I’m in a hurry again.”
“Okay.”
“See you.”
“See you.”
She walked away down the hall. He went into the studio. The teacher was putting away the music.
“You’re early.”
“Yeah.”
He sat at the piano and took out the Chaminade score. The teacher flipped through the pages.
“Oh, by the way. Next week is her last lesson.”
He looked up.
“Her last one?”
“She’s graduating. She said she’s quitting lessons after that.”
“She’s quitting?”
“Yeah. This time of year always gets a little sad. Kids go away for college, or move, and a lot of them stop lessons.”
She glanced at the wall behind him. A few photos were pinned up between small cards and notes.
“Those are former students?”
“Most of them. Some gave me things on their last day. Some sent them later.”
She smiled.
“After you teach someone for three years, six years, you remember what they played. Even how they played it.”
“You remember them by the music?”
“Sometimes. The same piece sounds different with every student.”
She looked down at the Chaminade score.
“She played Chaminade all the time. I have a feeling I’m going to hear Chaminade somewhere and think of her.”
Then she looked at him.
“You’ll probably be Bach for me. You worked so hard on those Inventions.”
“I’m not quitting yet.”
“Oh. Right.”
She laughed.
“Then I don’t have to miss you yet.”
The teacher turned another page.
“What about you?”
“Me?”
“You’re not going to quit just because you graduate, right?”
He didn’t answer right away.
“I don’t know yet.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
She pointed to the score.
“All right. Start here today.”
He put his hands on the keys.