On Christmas morning, when he tore away the wrapping paper and saw the case, he actually cried.
For months, music filled our house.
Sometimes badly.
Sometimes loudly.
But gradually, beautifully.
Then three days ago, I walked into his bedroom carrying clean laundry and saw the empty guitar stand.
When Ethan came home from Willowcrest Middle School, I asked where it was.
He looked at the floor and said, “I sold it, Mom.”
I had felt anger rise immediately.
Then he told me about Sophie.
Her wheelchair was old. The seams were splitting. Rust stained parts of the frame. One wheel resisted badly enough that she sometimes needed both hands just to keep moving straight.
And children laughed at her.
Ethan knew her parents couldn’t afford another wheelchair.
“So I sold the guitar,” he said.
“How much?”
“Six hundred dollars.”
I nearly shouted.
The guitar had cost us much more than that.
