He laughs. “Nah, not me. I’m a piano man myself. My daughter’s the guitar player in the family,” he says proudly.

I almost throw my arms around him until he adds, “Alison’s only six, and she can already play the first few chords of ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ Can you imagine?”

His new daughter from the life that doesn’t include me. It’s like I never even existed.

“That’s great,” I manage to say weakly. My father nods enthusiastically and reaches into his back pocket. He pulls out a flyer, which he hands to me.

“We do a weekly talent show at Muggs, a coffee bar near here. It’s an open-mic night kind of thing. It’s really worth coming to check out if you’re interested in lessons. Maybe you can even play us a little something on guitar. It’ll help me to figure out what level you’re at. You know any songs?”

“Um, yes,” I say, glancing at the flyer. I don’t have the heart to tell him that, in fact, I know hundreds of songs. And that millions of people in America know my songs too.

“Great!” my father exclaims. “It’s settled, then. Come on in. It’s tomorrow night. We’ll chat there, okay? We’ll figure out then what kind of lessons you’ll need and we’ll get you signed up.”

I nod slowly and let him walk me toward the door of the store. I’m in a daze; I feel numb, and as he leads me out, chattering pleasantly, I feel like I’ve been run over by a semi.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he says as he opens the door for me.

“Amanda,” I say, looking up at him with a glimmer of hope, just in case hearing his daughter’s given name rings any bells. But still, nada.

“I’m Pete Mecham,” he says pleasantly. He claps me on the back like we’re old chums, and I force a smile. “Thanks for coming in, Amanda,” he adds, holding the door open for me to walk out.

“Yeah,” I say. I wait until I’m back in the car to begin crying.

The tears don’t stop for a very long time.

I go through the motions of waiting tables that night. Nick was a good teacher, and I’m vastly improved from last night. Still, I know it’s obvious to everyone at the restaurant that something is wrong. Bev pulls me aside twice, and although I reassure her that I’m totally fine, I can see her shooting me furtive glances of concern every time she thinks I’m not looking.

As I hurry back and forth from the kitchen, putting in orders for salads, delivering steaming plates of veal marsala and chicken parmigiana, filling glasses full of ice and soda and clearing dishes away, all I can think about is my father.