Then she looked down at the splintered wood on the dressing-room floor and said,
“Maybe now you’ll stop being so selfish.”
For a few seconds, I couldn’t even breathe.
That violin had belonged to my grandfather.
He was the one who taught me my first scale when I was four.
He corrected the way I held my bow when I was eight.
And when he died, he left the instrument to me.
That evening, I was scheduled to perform the final movement of Sibelius with the New York Metropolitan Youth Orchestra.
The audience would include donors, critics, and directors from three prestigious conservatories.
It was the biggest opportunity I had ever been given.
And my sister Vanessa had just destroyed my grandfather’s violin because I refused to give her my new dress.
She was still holding the emerald gown against herself.
“You have plenty of dresses, Claire.”
“So do you.”
“But this one looks better on me.”
“It was bought for tonight.”
Her expression immediately hardened.
Vanessa had never handled the word no very well.
Growing up, if she wanted one of my birthday presents, my parents told me to share.
When she wanted my bedroom because it had the bigger window, they said I was older and should be generous.
When she borrowed money and never returned it, Mom accused me of being petty whenever I asked about it.
Vanessa had spent her entire life learning that if she wanted something badly enough, eventually someone would give it to her.
But the violin was different.
