Two days later someone knocked on my studio door while I was mixing tracks. I opened it and found Clare standing there with Tyler beside her. He held a folded piece of paper and looked down at his shoes. Tyler has something to say, Clare told me.
He unfolded the paper and read from it in a flat, rehearsed voice. Dear Uncle Marcus, he read. I’m sorry I broke your guitar. I didn’t know it was expensive. I promise to be more careful. Please forgive me. Love, Tyler. He folded the paper back up and looked at Clare. Can we go now, he asked.
I looked at him. Do you know why what you did was wrong, I asked. He shrugged. Because it was expensive, he said. No, I told him. Because it wasn’t yours. The price doesn’t matter. You don’t destroy other people’s property. Tyler looked genuinely confused. I guess, he said. Do you feel bad about breaking it, I asked. For the first time, Tyler was actually honest with me. Derek said you’d just buy a new one, he said.
Clare cut in quickly. See, she said. He apologized. Drop the countersuit. That wasn’t an apology, I said. That was a performance. You wrote that for him. He’s nine, she said. Then teach him, I said. That’s your job as his mother.
