I clutch Beatrix tight and think of my sweet, funny baby boy, picturing him safe on Tanya’s couch, blissed out with a belly full of pizza. I think of what I’ll do if that’s the case, all the sacrifices I will make to repay the universe. I’ll see to it that that vile man’s daughter gets her lungs. I’ll donate my house, my jewels, my car if I have to. I’ll do anything.

“If you really want to quit violin, you can, you know.” I press a kiss into my daughter’s hair. “I’m sorry I pushed you so hard.”

All my prodding for Beatrix to log her practice hours, my tiger-mom tendencies and inflated expectations for her future, my pushing her into auditions or the spotlight whenever my friends came around. I told myself it was because as her parent, I was responsible for ensuring she honors this magnificent gift she’s been given by God, by the universe. But maybe her perfectionist tendencies come from me, in an effort to please me.

Which can mean only one thing.

Beatrix is not the one who needs to change.

I am.

I make a silent vow: no more dragging her across town to lessons three times a week. No more hiding the remote because it’s practice time or dismissing her tears because she’s sacrificing yet another social event for the violin. No more bandaging calluses and bloody fingers—not unless she chooses to put them there herself. From now on, whenever Beatrix tells me she wants to quit, I will shower her with kisses and tell her it’s up to her. I will hand her the controls, allow her to dictate the contents of her own life. My daughter can be anything she wants to be. Who am I to decide?

Slowly, she shakes her head against my shoulder.

“Seriously, Bea. You can play piano or softball or take art lessons, or you can lie on the couch and do nothing at all. This is your life, not mine. You get to decide how to fill it.”

“But I don’t want to quit. Not until I get the Locatelli, and even then.” She shakes her head again, and her voice is quiet but resolute. “I don’t want to quit.”

“Then why did you say you wanted to?”

She leans back just enough to give me a sheepish grin. “My legs were tired. At least with the piano you get to sit down.”

Miss Juliet’s schoolmarm voice barks in my mind. Back straight. Spine aligned. Head up. Violin begins with good posture, always. Most parents want their children to grow up. Cam and I should have spent more time coaxing Beatrix to grow down.

I drop a kiss on her nose. “You are my hero, do you know that? What you did this afternoon was so brave, and I am so unbelievably proud to be your mother.”