Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Benny has a point. Guitars are expensive and I would hate to buy something only for her to want something different in a few months, or even a year.
I nod. “All right, we’ll do the rental program.”
Lily beams, almost as if she’s won a prize. Little does she know there isn’t a single thing I wouldn’t do for her, and that includes letting her follow a musical path. I’d love for her to be anything but a musician, but it’s who she’s destined to be, and I won't be able to stop her. No matter how hard I try.
Thirty minutes later, we leave Rattlesnake Guitars with a rental agreement, a song book, and the Taylor Baby acoustic in a case that Lily carries with both hands.
“You’ll bring this one to your lessons with Benny.”
“I figured. Hey, maybe you could take lessons.”
“I already know how to play,” I remind her.
Lily shrugs as she sets her case in the backseat. “But maybe if you practice more, you’ll find your love again.”
I want to hug her and squeeze her at the same time. I opt for the former and pull her into my arms. “I love you, Lily Bug. And you’re right, maybe I need some time with Benny.”
Darian knows how to play. He could teach you.
The rest of the afternoon passes quickly. We browse the used bookstore on Music Row, where Lily finds a book about female musicians. We stop at the grocery store for ingredients. We drive home with the windows down and country music playing, Lily humming harmonies that sound advanced for someone with no training.
By the time we start cooking, I realize I haven’t thought about work once. My attention isn’t split between competing demands. I’m not wasting energy on problems I can’t solve.
“Can you teach me to make the sauce from scratch?” Lily asks, washing her hands at the kitchen sink.
“Of course.”
We work side by side, browning ground turkey and chopping onions and garlic. I show her how to layer flavors, how to taste and adjust seasoning, how to let the sauce simmer long enough for everything to meld together.
The radio plays softly, a mix of classic country and contemporary songs. When “The Dance” by Garth Brooks comes on, Lily starts swaying while she stirs the sauce.
“Dance with me,” she says, setting down the wooden spoon.
“Right here?”
“Why not?”
She’s right. Why not? I take her hands and we dance around the kitchen island, laughing as we try not to step on each other. Lily spins under my arm, hair flying, completely unselfconscious.
The song ends but we keep dancing, making up our own rhythm to whatever comes next. We laugh until our sides hurt, until we’re both breathless and grinning.
“This is the best day,” Lily says, collapsing against the counter.
“For me too.”
And I mean it. This simple day with my daughter has been better than any work accomplishment or personal milestone I’ve had recently.
We eat dinner at the kitchen table with candles lit. Lily tells me about camp friends and asks about my childhood music experiences. Conversations I should have been having instead of being distracted by chaos.
After dinner, while I load the dishwasher, Lily gets the guitar and sits cross-legged on the living room floor. She opens her song book and starts playing, tongue sticking out in concentration.
The sounds are hesitant but determined. I can already hear her brain working through how finger placement affects tone, how different pressure creates different sounds.
“Mom?” she calls from the living room.
“Yeah?”
“Will you sing something? Something old, from when you used to play?”
The request surprises me. I’ve kept my musical past separate from being Lily’s mother, afraid that opening that door would invite questions I couldn’t answer or emotions I couldn’t handle.
But tonight, with my daughter holding a guitar and asking for my history, the fear feels smaller than the love.
I sit on the couch behind her, close enough to see her fingers working through chord progressions.
“What do you want to hear?”
“Anything. Something that was yours.”
I think for a moment, searching through years of buried songs until I find one safe enough to share. A lullaby I wrote during pregnancy, when the future felt uncertain but full of possibility. I go to my room and grab my acoustic guitar, and then retake my spot.
“Watch my fingers,” I tell her. The song is slow and the chords are easy. There isn’t a doubt in my mind she’ll be able to play this after a few tries.
My voice starts soft, barely above a whisper. The words come back slowly at first, then with growing confidence. A simple melody about protection and promise, about love that lasts through change and challenge.
When the song ends, she doesn’t ask questions or demand explanations. She just says, “That was beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“Will you teach me to play it?”
Nodding. “Yeah, I will. I wrote it for you, when you were a baby. You can have it now.”