My father’s laughter deepened. “A dog could have done better,” he scoffed.
I felt a wave of fury rise, memories of their relentless criticism from my own childhood crashing over me. Taking a steadying breath, I stepped forward. “She’s doing great,” I said firmly, masking my anger.
“Oh, Tom,” my mother said, waving dismissively. “Don’t be so sensitive. We’re just having fun.”
“Fun?” I replied, my voice low but resolute. “You call tearing her down fun? It’s not happening in my home.”
Their laughter ceased, replaced by defensive indignation. My father stood, his face red. “You’re too soft,” he snapped. “She’ll never toughen up like this.”
I took a step closer, my voice steady but full of conviction. “This is why I struggled for so long—because you couldn’t be kind. I won’t let you do the same to her. It’s time for you to leave.”
They stared at me, stunned, before reluctantly gathering their belongings. The door shut behind them, leaving behind an aching silence. I turned to find Lily wiping away tears.
“Daddy, I’m sorry,” she said, her voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No, sweetheart,” I interrupted, pulling her into my arms. “You did nothing wrong. You were amazing, and I’m so proud of you. They were wrong to say those things, but that doesn’t make them true.”
Her tearful eyes met mine, and slowly, she nodded. “Okay, Daddy.”
Later that evening, as Lily went to bed, I sat at the piano, staring at the photo of the two of us. Their criticism had always overshadowed my joy, but I wouldn’t let it steal hers. The next morning, we returned to the piano together.
“Let’s try again,” I said, smiling. “Just you and me.”
Lily nodded, her fingers more confident this time. As the music filled the room, a little stronger, a little surer, I knew that together, we would be okay.
