Our parents were gone by then. Our aunt raised us for a while, then she was gone too, and 18-year-old Lorie stepped into a life she never asked for and became everything for me at once. She was the one who ran beside the ambulance that day and sat with me through every quiet humiliation of healing.
My sister stood in front of me on my wedding day and asked, “Are you ready?”
He said that I was “lucky” to have survived.
I wiped my eyes and nodded. Then I walked toward the man who changed my life.
I met Callahan in the basement of the same church where we were getting married.
He taught piano three afternoons a week to children who never counted correctly and sang louder than they played. The first time I heard him, he was correcting a little boy’s timing with more patience than I had ever heard in a man’s voice.
“Again,” Callahan told the boy gently. “Slower this time, pal. The song isn’t running away from you!”
I smiled before I even saw him.
He was sitting at the upright piano with dark glasses on, one hand resting on the keys, the other reaching down to scratch the ears of the golden dog lying beside him. Buddy wore a harness and the patient expression of a creature who had seen all of life already.
