His favorite part of the week was sitting down to play the piano. For a while, he didn't have to do schoolwork, or practice elocution and diction, he could just listen to the music. And his fingers did all the talking.
It didn't matter what he was learning to play...Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, classics or contemporary...he loved it all.
When he sat on that bench and scooted forward enough for his short legs to reach the pedals, the troubles and boredom melted away. He only felt joy, pure and unblemished. In his heart, he imagined he could see a beautiful garden surrounded by a wall of thorns. The piano was his garden...his sanctuary.
For one precious year, he was able to escape to that secret place each Saturday. He wished with the passion of deepest desire he could feel that way all the time.
He never imagined it could be taken away.
At the dinner table one night, the question came, same as it always did.
"What have you accomplished today, Andrew?"
"One-hundred percent in maths, father, as well as history and literature."
"Excellent," said Mr. Hanbridge, "I've spoken to your elocution tutor. He tells me you have shown considerable improvement. You have made me proud."
Andrew lit up at the rare grain of praise from his father. He preserved it, crystal clear in his mind, as precious as any treasure. He couldn't have beat the smile from his face with a stick.
"Tomorrow, you will accompany me to work. It is about time you started to learn the basics of diplomacy. How does that sound?" said Paul, not expecting much of an answer aside from a firm 'yes, father.' He busied himself pouring milk into his tea.
"Oh...um..." Andrew faltered.
"Clearly and concisely, son," said Mr. Hanbridge, not looking up from his cup.
Andrew fidgeted. Talking about piano was expressly forbidden at the table and practically everywhere in his father's presence. But...well, he did just say he was proud...didn't he?
"I have a piano lesson tomorrow. I don't want to miss it..." he started tentatively.
Mr. Hanbridge let out a terse sigh, trying to keep his temper. "The piano does not matter. We have to start preparing you for a leadership role."
"But...please...I like to play music," he started to panic, feeling one of the few things that he loved in the world slipping away through his fingers. "I don't want to be a leader! I want to play music!"
"Enough!" Paul Hanbridge slammed a hand on the tabletop, making the teacups quake.
Andrew flinched, tears coming to his eyes. His father rarely raised his voice to him...he rarely had to.
"Don't you understand, boy? I can't give you the future! I can only give you the tools to succeed and how can I do that when you constantly get distracted by useless things?!"
Andrew didn't say anything. He didn't understand at all. Why did doing something he loved make his father so angry?
"This music nonsense stops now. I had my doubts when it started and I should have listened to myself. You will not play anymore!"
The words broke Andrew's heart. He couldn't stop the sob that wracked his small body. Not wanting his father to see him cry like this, not wanting to be anywhere near here, he left his place at the table and bolted for his room, vision blurry from cascading tears.
"I'm only doing what's best for you! Remember that!" his father shouted after him.
But he still didn't understand. He only ran to his room and laid face down on the bed so that his distraught sobs would be muffled by the covers. He cried and cried.
Deep in his heart, the ugly wall of thorns grew so tall he couldn't see his garden anymore, his sanctuary. It had all slipped away.
Finally, he had no more tears left. His eyes were bleary and red. The thorns inside his heart grew so hard, he thought he might choke on them.
The beauty that was ripped up by the roots now turned to steely resolve. With the tears all gone, he could hardly feel anything anymore.
He didn't cry when they took the piano from the house...he hardly felt it. The ugly thorns protected his heart. He dutifully attended his studies and his father's lessons in diplomacy and politics.
As he grew, so did the wall, always protecting him, always harming him.