A week later, Clare texted asking if I’d be willing to see Tyler, no pressure, just that he asked about me constantly and it might help him to hear from me directly. I thought about it, then replied, Saturday afternoon, my house, you drop off only. Saturday came, and the doorbell rang. Tyler stood there, ten years old now, holding the small guitar I’d sent anonymously months before. Thank you for the guitar, he said. I looked at it. How do you know it was me, I asked. The note said music heals, he said. That’s what you always said. I invited him in and we sat together on the porch. Can you play anything, I asked. He played a basic chord progression, C, G, E minor, F, not clean, but close enough. Not bad, I told him. I practice every day, he said. I showed him a new chord. He tried it, struggled, tried again, got it. Then he looked down at the guitar in his lap. I’m sorry I broke your guitar, he said. I know, I told him. Mom says I need to understand why it was wrong, he said. Do you, I asked. Because it was yours and I didn’t ask, he said. And because Derek told me to do it, and I should have said no. That’s exactly right, I told him. Tyler looked up at me. I’m not supposed to listen when Derek says mean things about people anymore, he said. Good, I said. Think for yourself. We played together for an hour. I taught him three new chords. He left happy, and Clare picked him up and waved from the car. Tyler was going to be okay. Good parenting could still repair a lot of damage, given enough time.
My Nephew Smashed My $7,000 Gibson and Everyone Said “He’s Just a Child”—Then I Saw His Dad’s Mercedes Outside
