I pick at the skin around my thumbnail as my father speaks. Miniscule shards of flesh peel off, dropping to the floor; my feet wrap around the chair’s legs.
“We just want what’s best for you,” he says, again. His ignorance is thick and heavy on the air. My mother—and the ubiquitous look of frustration—is a mute puppet at his side.
“You loved piano when you were younger,” he opines.
Younger. Naïve. Untouched, unsullied, unviolated.
“I’ve changed,” I say.
“Well, you’re keeping it up till the summer. It’s already been paid for.”
He cannot comprehend the price.