An hour later, I found them both in the rec pool. “Watch me, Mommy, watch!” Molly yelled, and leaped off the side, disappearing under the surface. She sprang up and swam, struggling like a puppy, straight to her waiting father. “See?” she said, her wide eyes starred by wet lashes, “I don’t need lessons.”

This is different, I thought at the recital. He can’t save her from the piano. He can only help her run away.

In the end, the decision was taken from all of us. “There you are,” said Mrs. Dashwood, the piano teacher, bustling forward. “Let’s go backstage and get some lipstick on.” The teacher, who had an MFA and the face of a pageant winner, was idolized by her little-girl students. Mrs. Dashwood was wise, too, understanding the power of the promise of stage makeup to distract a kid from fear. She took Molly by the hand and walked her down the sloping aisle of the auditorium.

Molly glanced back once, her eyes filled with uncertainty, yet she was unresisting as Mrs. Dashwood led her away. I watched the teacher stop at the edge of the stage to point something out. By the time Molly disappeared behind the curtain, there was a discernible spring of excitement in her step.

I found myself clutching Dan’s hand. I didn’t even remember grabbing it, but I would never forget what he said. Leaning down to kiss my cheek, he said, “Relax. She’s in good hands.”

“Hey, if it were up to you, she’d be at the ice-cream parlor.”

“And guess what—the world wouldn’t come to an end.”

As the youngest on the program, Molly went first. Mrs. Dashwood welcomed everyone, then introduced her. A smattering of applause and a few adoring “Awws” came from the audience, which consisted of carefully dressed parents, grandparents and the occasional doting aunt or restless sibling.

Molly walked slowly with a curious dignity, her full skirt tolling like a bell with each step she took. So tiny, I thought. A porcelain doll, all alone up there. She didn’t look at the audience, didn’t try to find me with her eyes. She stood still, and my heart skipped a beat. But Molly knew what she was doing. She jacked up the stool to its highest level so she could reach the keyboard.

We had practiced how to smooth the full skirt in order to sit down properly. She remembered every unhurried move. Her patent leather shoes glittered in the stage lights, dangling above the pedals. Mrs. Dashwood said she wouldn’t use the pedals until she was tall enough to reach them.

She rested her little hands on the keyboard. This was it, I thought. This was her moment. I took in a breath, ready to be dazzled.

It was a disaster from the first chord. Wrong notes, hesitation, whole measures forgotten. It was the longest ninety seconds of my life.

When it was over, I had aged a decade. Molly barely made it through the adorable curtsy we’d rehearsed. She fled into the wings and we found her in the stage hallway, a crushed flower surrounded by blue petals.