I picked one up. The label read: “For Daisy – December 2018.”
Another: “For Daisy – March 2020.”
Dozens of them, going back years.
I looked around the room more carefully.
On the same table, I found medical reports. Dated six months before Robert died.
“Diagnosis: severe heart condition.
Prognosis: limited time.”
Robert had known.
Beside the medical reports lay a contract with a building caretaker, detailing instructions to deliver the flowers and the envelope to me on the first Valentine’s Day after Robert’s death.
He’d planned this.
Robert had known.
Next to the contract was a journal. I opened it with numb hands.
The first entry was dated 25 years ago.
“Today, Daisy mentioned her old piano. She said, ‘I used to dream of being a pianist. Playing in concert halls. But life had other plans.’ She laughed when she said it, but I saw the sadness in her eyes.”
I remembered that conversation. We’d been cleaning out the garage when I found my old sheet music in a box. I’d flipped through it, smiled, and put it away.
I thought I’d forgotten about it. But Robert had listened.
“I saw the sadness in her eyes.”
The next entry:
“I’ve decided to learn piano. I want to give her back the dream she gave up for our family.”
I started crying as I kept reading.
About his lessons:
“Signed up for piano lessons today. The instructor is half my age. She looked skeptical when I told her I’m a complete beginner.”
About his failures:
