That evening, as I sat in Jerry’s old chair holding his picture, the phone rang. It was my son, Jacob.
“Mom, what’s going on?” he asked gently.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“Mom, I know you too well. What’s wrong?”
I told him everything—the complaints, the vandalism. “I feel lost,” I admitted.
“Oh, Mom, you should’ve told me sooner,” Jacob said, concerned. “Your music brings joy to everyone. Remember the Christmas parties, the recitals? You’re a gift.”
“I’ll call Melissa,” he added. “She’s closer, and we’ll figure this out.”
A few days later, there was a knock at my door. My granddaughter, Melissa, stood there with a big smile.
“Surprise, Nana!” she said, hugging me. But her smile quickly faded when she saw the graffiti. “Who did this?” she asked, furious.
I told her the whole story, tears streaming down my face. Her expression hardened. “We’re going to fix this, Nana.”
“How?” I asked, feeling defeated.
Melissa squeezed my hands. “Those neighbors don’t know who they’re messing with. We’ll show them.”
The next day, Melissa sprang into action. She made calls, enlisted neighbors, and ordered supplies. By evening, small speakers were hidden around the neighbors’ property.
When they came home, Melissa smiled. “Showtime!”
Soft piano music drifted from the bushes. The neighbors rushed out, confused. But soon, the sounds changed—barking dogs, car alarms, and finally, loud fart noises. I laughed so hard I had tears in my eyes.
“Nana, no one messes with you,” Melissa said proudly.
The next morning, a crew arrived to soundproof my piano room. “Now you can play whenever you want,” Melissa said, giving my hand a squeeze.
As I sat at my piano, the familiar notes of “Moon River” filled the room. I closed my eyes, feeling Jerry’s presence with me.
“That’s my girl,” I could almost hear him say. “Play on, Bessie. Play on.”
And I did, knowing my music would never be silenced again.