A Lullaby He Will Never Hear

By our seventh year in Vienna, my thirteen-year-old daughter, Charlotte Hayes, was hailed as an international violin prodigy.

No matter how complex the technique, Charlotte could weave it into a breathtaking melody.

But there was one deceptively simple lullaby Charlotte refused to play. She feared that playing it would mean finding it in her heart to forgive the wretched man who had wronged her.

So, when the man named Erik Maxwell appeared at the door of our Vienna music studio with an antique Stradivarius violin, begging Charlotte to play that lullaby for him, she simply shook her head calmly.

"Sir, I do not play that piece."

Erik's eyes reddened instantly. He grabbed Charlotte's hand, trying to force it onto the expensive bow.

"That's impossible! You're a prodigy, Charlotte! Haven't you always wanted a violin of your very own? I bought you the finest one in the world! From now on, anything you want—just tell me. I'll make it happen."

Charlotte coldly pulled her hand away.

"No, thank you, sir. I can earn my own money for a violin now. You should give this one to your daughter."

His heart plummeted. He reached for Charlotte, wanting to pull her into his arms.

"What are you talking about, Charlotte? You are my only daughter!"

But Charlotte's expression was one of feigned confusion that barely hid her mockery.

"Weren't you the one who said Miss Monroe's daughter was the only one worthy of being your child? Weren't you the one who gave the violin you promised me to her daughter instead?"

At this, Charlotte just gave Erik a faint smile.

"It doesn't matter, sir. Since you're so fond of Miss Monroe, why don't you just keep sponsoring her daughter? My mother is all I need."

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1

Erik Maxwell's mind was reeling. Of all the scenarios he'd imagined before coming to Vienna, he never expected his daughter, Charlotte Hayes, to be so cold.

What he didn't know was that back in New York City, Charlotte and I had already given him countless chances.

In our five years of marriage, he'd had countless opportunities to reveal his identity to us, to tell us that he was, in fact, the heir to the Maxwell family, a top Manhattan financial dynasty. But he'd remained silent.

Whenever Charlotte said she wanted to play the violin for him, he would always put her off with the excuse of financial strain.

"I will, sweetheart, but money's tight right now. As soon as I get next month's paycheck, I promise I'll buy you a proper one."

For five years, I worked as a waitress in a Brooklyn coffee shop by day and taught beginner violin lessons to children at a community center by night. We scrimped and saved every penny.

He just watched coldly from the sidelines. For five whole years.

Every time we dragged ourselves back, exhausted, to our old, rent-controlled apartment, Charlotte would ask me, her voice brimming with hope, "Mom, have we saved up enough for a new violin? I want to play a lullaby for Dad. It was the first piece I ever learned!"

And every time, I would count the loose change and wrinkled bills in our jar, then shake my head.

"Just a little more, sweetheart. We'll save more tomorrow, and we'll have enough soon."

Finally, a month before Charlotte's birthday, as I counted the change we had saved for so long, I was overjoyed to find we had enough for a decent second-hand violin.

But when I took Charlotte to a free youth concert at Lincoln Center, I spotted Erik in the lobby. He was standing with his first love, Sienna Monroe, who was dressed in a haute couture gown, speaking eloquently to the media.

My hand trembled as I pointed to the display board behind them and asked a nearby receptionist, "Excuse me, what does that foundation do?"

The receptionist offered a practiced, professional smile. "That's the Young Artists Fund, just established by the Maxwell family. Mr. Maxwell is announcing the first artist to receive a full sponsorship, who happens to be Miss Sienna Monroe's daughter."

Full sponsorship. In an instant, I felt the blood run cold in my veins.

Someone had once mentioned that Erik's background was unusual, that he didn't carry himself like a man with no money. But looking at our shabby apartment, the moldy wallpaper, and the second-hand furniture, I could never bring myself to believe he was actually wealthy.

Looking back, it must have been such a trial for him, a bona fide billionaire, to slum it in an apartment like that for five years.

Puzzled by my silence, Charlotte tugged at the corner of my coat. "Mom, is Dad very rich? Did he start that fund for me?"

Charlotte, still so young, couldn't possibly grasp the complex dynamics between the people on that stage. Looking at her faded, hand-me-down coat, I opened my mouth, but no words would come.