I returned a month early, eager for a romantic night, but found two girls in our bedroom, my husband startled. I’m Anna, 36, and this is how a jarring moment led to music, connection, and a new vision for our future.
I imagined my homecoming like a love song—dim lights, a home-cooked meal, and Paul’s arms pulling me close. My tours kept us apart, and I missed our spark. But walking into our bedroom, I stopped short. Two girls, maybe eleven, sat on my beloved rug, one plucking my lute, my lyric pages tossed around. “What’s this?” I asked, gripping my bag of candles and bread. “Our mom said it’s fine,” one said. “Who are you?” I replied, “I live here.” I took my lute, collecting papers, when Paul burst in, shocked. “Anna! You’re early!” he said. “Explain these kids,” I demanded.
Downstairs, with the girls—Sophie and Lily—snacking, Paul shared the truth. His friend, Maria, had a family emergency, needing to leave her daughters for a trip. “I couldn’t refuse,” he said. “It’s short-term.” I sighed. “Why my music room? Why no call?” He paused. “You said kids weren’t your thing. I was scared you’d say no.” My tired words haunted me. “I didn’t mean it,” I said. “This felt right,” he replied. The week was loud—my calm mornings turned to shouts and cereal messes. A juice stain on my viola case sent me to play alone, door shut.
Sophie peeked in. “That’s beautiful,” she said. I let her stay, and her singing fit my notes. Lily joined, tapping a box like a drum, and we formed a band. We rehearsed daily, Sophie’s voice pure, Lily’s rhythm lively, my viola soaring. Paul lingered, smiling softly. Our concert for him earned cheers. “Can we learn more?” Sophie asked. I agreed, touched. Maria returned, and the girls left a drawing of our “Star Band.” On our porch, I said, “Kids?” Paul held up two fingers, grinning. “Two’s perfect,” I said, kissing his hand. The surprise wasn’t just a shock—it was a melody that opened my heart to family.
