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:
“Today I tried to play a simple scale and my fingers felt like they belonged to someone else. This is harder than I thought.”
“I want to give her back the dream she gave up for our family.”
About his frustrations.
“I’ve been at this for six months and I still can’t play a simple melody without mistakes. Maybe I’m too old to learn.”
About his determination:
“I’m not giving up. Daisy never gave up on me. I won’t give up on this.”
About his progress:
“Today I played ‘Clair de Lune’ all the way through. It wasn’t perfect, but it was recognizable. I recorded it for her.”
“Daisy never gave up on me.”
I turned the page. The entries got shorter near the end.
“The doctor says my heart is giving out. I don’t have much time. But I need to finish one more piece.”
“Daisy asked me yesterday why I’ve been gone so much. I told her I was visiting old friends. I hated lying to her. But I can’t tell her yet. Not until it’s finished.”
“My hands shake now when I play. But I keep practicing. For her.”
“This will be my last composition. I’m writing it myself. For her. I want it to be perfect. She deserves perfection.”
“I hated lying to her.”
