Derek stepped forward then, trying belatedly to play peacemaker after having lit the match himself. Look, he said, I’ll pay for repairs. It’s not repairable, I told him. Come on, Marcus. The top is split, I said. The bridge is completely gone. This isn’t a scratch. It’s destroyed.
Barbara arrived next, my mother, sixty two years old, who had built an entire career out of appearing neutral while actually protecting whoever happened to be making the biggest scene in the moment. She took one look at Tyler crying in Clare’s arms and made her choice instantly. Marcus, she said, stop scaring the boy.
Richard came right behind her, my father, sixty four, retired, square shouldered, still convinced that crossing his arms transformed him into some kind of impartial judge. He looked at the guitar pieces scattered across the floor. He looked at me. He looked at Tyler crying. It’s just a guitar, son, he said. You can get another one.
That sentence hung in the air like smoke from a fire nobody wanted to admit they’d started. Just a guitar. Get another one. Nobody asked how I felt. Nobody scolded Tyler for what he’d done. Nobody demanded Derek apologize for what he’d said. All the concern in that room flowed toward Tyler, all the protection went to the person who had actually destroyed my property, my career tool, my five years of sacrifice.
