"Sydney," Mom says when she's nearly done braiding my hair – or, French-braiding it. She's amazing at it, I've tried, I never can get it right. "I think you should call your dad and tell him what you're going to be doing tonight."

I stiffen immediately, but try not to show it. "No, I don't want to," I say as casually as I can, smoothing out this red dress that I actually kind of like, even though I'm not the kind of girl who wears dresses. Piano recitals have changed me a little as I've gotten older.

Mom sighs, twists some of my hair. I watch her in the bathroom mirror. I think she had a drink earlier, but if she only had one, that's pretty good news. She seems sober. "Why not?" she asks.

"I just don't."

Mom pins something onto my hair, so I guess it's done. Then she comes to the side of the chair I'm sitting in and leans on the counter, so our heads are about at the same level in the mirror. Her reflection's eyes meet my reflection's eyes. "Do you remember how when I agreed to keep you playing piano a secret from Dad, you told me you didn't want it to be forever?"

"I don't. But I'm not ready yet."

"Why not?" she asks again, softly.

I pick a barrette from the counter and play with it, snapping it open, clicking it closed. Snap, click. Snap, click. "He'll be mad at me for lying to him all this time."

"Oh, I think he'll understand," Mom says. "I'm pretty good at making him understand stuff. And Lord knows he can't stay mad at his baby girl for very long."

"He's stayed mad long enough before," I mutter.

"Baby, he won't be mad. Not really. Not after he hears you play."

My head snaps towards her, my eyes pop wide open. "You haven't already told him about the recital, have you?"

"No, honey. No. It's your call. It's always been your call." She takes my hand. She painted our nails earlier today, so we both have deep red manicures. Our hands look a lot alike. Pianist hands. "But I know your daddy. And I know that if he came tonight . . . if he heard you play, and saw how magnificent you are . . ." She looks me in the eye, real me, not reflection-me. "He would be so, so proud of you." She brushes a loose strand of hair from my eyes. "And baby," she whispers, "You deserve to shine. You, my precious, precious little girl –" She takes both of my hands – "You shouldn't be hiding one inch in the shadows. You're wonderful, wonderful. And everyone should see that. Starting with your daddy."

I don't know what to say to that. Mom's kind of tearing up, which makes me uncomfortable, but I don't know what's wrong, or what's right, or why she cares so much that people see how good I am at piano. Why Dad sees how good I am.

But . . .

For whatever reason I say, "Alright."

"Alright?"

And then I nod. "Yeah. Let's tell Dad. About the recital tonight. Let's see if he'll come."

And Mom, she gives me such a smile, such an honest, loving smile that comes with a tear she tries to brush away as fast as she can, that I can't back out.

And – maybe, maybe – I don't want to.

I don't want to.

Mom clears her throat, lets out a long exhale, laughs a little and stands. "My cell phone is in my office," she says as she starts to put all of my hair stuff back into this drawer and that drawer, "You go get it, and then we'll call Dad together. Okay?"

I'm trembling, but I say okay.

Why am I trembling, though? Fear, anxiety? Excitement? Maybe everything.

Dad's going to know I play the piano. He's going to know I play the piano well.

I'll finally be able to play for my daddy.

And maybe he will be mad that I've lied to him for so long, mad at me and mad at Mom. But I know, I know, that he'll be proud of me when he hears me play. I know it.

The news is on in the living room, because Mom typically leaves it on anytime she isn't playing piano or a record – she hates the quiet. I usually ignore it, but on my way back to my room with Mom's cell phone in hand, I hear something that makes me stop. Because the word pandemic is a bad thing, we learned about it in science class not long ago, and the man on the news just said it. So I stop, I turn, I watch the TV. And the man, his face serious, is saying in a deep voice that actually kind of cracks a little, "– has reached Georgia. While patients have been flown into the CDC from all across the country, this is the first case to have seemingly originated in Georgia. The patient, whose identity is being withheld from the general public, has been quarantined, as has his family, one of which was reportedly bitten by the man before –"

The TV goes black, and I turn to see my mother, standing straight, remote in hand, staring at the TV with a strange look on her face.

"Go change out of your dress, baby," she says without looking at me. "We're not going to the recital tonight."

And somehow I know not to ask questions. And somehow I know to lay the cell phone down on the coffee table. Dad will not hear me play tonight.

But someday. Someday he will. And he'll be proud.