I let the feelings come—now knowing that resisting grief only makes it worse—and wait until they pass. “Who’s a good boy?” I stroke Jackson’s cheek and mess with the bumpy skin close to his right ear. The pediatrician explained how to feel for rashes, how to differentiate between eczema, psoriasis, diaper rash, or even chicken pox. This is eczema.

I take inventory of the rest of his skin—all clear—and wind my fingers through his wispy hair. He drains my left breast, then my right. I resist the urge to fall asleep. So many times during the day, I try to nap and almost get there, but something happens: the phone rings. The baby cries. He’s wide awake and wants to be entertained. But the sleeplessness is worth it for moments like these.

I rock Jackson until he is milk drunk and lay him back in his crib. I leave his door cracked and pad back downstairs to the kitchen, not even realizing the kettle has been whistling. The angry steam hisses from the spout. I flick off the burner and pour myself a cup.

I sip my tea. The silence consumes me. I ask Google Home to play my Spotify symphony playlist and briefly conjure my younger, sighted self in the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, followed by vision symptoms I could no longer ignore, which inevitably led to a diagnosis of Stargardt disease and Charles Bonnet syndrome. As my vision went, it was like staring at a painting whose center had been wiped clean. It was manageable at first, like having really bad vision and forgetting your glasses. And then, everything finite slipped away.

My career died with my vision, which was a catastrophic loss. I can still play, of course, but after pregnancy, Chris’s death, and moving to the suburbs, I gave in to the reality of my condition. Now, it’s about me alone in a room, practicing. Not me on the stage, performing. Thank God for my photographic memory and the music I keep in my head.

I walk to the front door and open it to get the paper. Sprinklers rhythmically sputter from neighboring lawns. I clutch the paper in my hands, now soggy. I haven’t had the heart to stop my mother’s subscription.

Inside, the door clicks shut and the humidity leeches from the room. I toss the paper on the entry table. The silence briefly roars again between songs, deafening, then slowly, sound bleeds back in: the ticking clock, the hum of the fridge, the whiny floors beneath my socked feet, the slow crescendo of a violin. I twist the lock. We live in a family-friendly community, but fears mount anyway: a midday break-in. A madman on the loose. A rapist.

“Stop it, Rebecca.” My voice bounces off the walls, a dull echo. Inside my head, a single word repeats until I want to cry.

Alonealonealonealonealone.