Music class was always a bright spot for me. I loved the soothing, resonant sounds of the instruments, and our teacher, Mrs. Shedd, played the piano with such talent and passion that I spent my afternoons dreaming of having those same melodies under my own fingers one day.

I was in second grade when my mother passed away. The school year was only half over, and our entire grade was preparing for an end-of-year music program. The theme was "Transportation"—a whimsical concept that felt strangely heavy to me. While the other kids practiced "Hot Air Balloon," I found myself stuck on the lyrics to "Leaving on a Jet Plane."

“I’m leavin’ on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again...”

Those words brought a specific, sharp sadness. It made me wonder if she had known. Things were different back then; impending death was treated with a "hush-hush" reverence. I remember lingering near the end of her illness, overhearing my older sister whisper to my dad, "Should we tell her what the doctors are saying?"

My father’s voice was steady, but quiet. "I asked the doctor, and he said... only if she asks."

I didn't know how to ask. So, I just kept practicing my songs, getting ready to stand in a spotlight that she would never see.

On the night of the program, the excitement of the costumes and the buzz of the gymnasium acted like a shield. I felt "program-ready." I was vibrating with that childhood hum that makes you forget, for a few blissful minutes, that your world has tilted off its axis. I stepped onto the risers, the heat of the spotlight hitting my face like a warm, blinding hug.

I stood tall, chest out, ready to show the world my song. But then I began the "scan." My eyes moved through the dark sea of faces, looking for the one person who always knew how to find me.

I found my father sitting in the crowd alone.

In that instant, the reality I had suppressed crashed through the light. It wasn't just that she wasn't there; it was the "never" of it all. She wouldn't be at the program next year, or the year after, or ever. I had to face the harsh fact that I would never see her again.

A heavy, jagged lump formed in my throat, anchoring my voice to my chest. As the music played on, the best I could do was lip-sync. I moved my mouth in a silent mimicry of the joy around me while the tears welled up, hot and certain. I somehow made it through the rest of the set, a small, sturdy soldier in a second-grade dress. I was a girl standing in the light, finally facing the dark.