The music I played on my piano was my last precious tie to my late husband, Roger. But that joy was snatched away by heartless neighbors who left a cruel message on my wall. Thankfully, my granddaughter swooped in and gave those obnoxious neighbors something to think about.
“Roger, darling, did you enjoy that?” I asked, my voice soft as the final notes of «Clair de Lune» drifted through the cozy living room. My eyes lingered on the photo of my late husband, Roger. Even in the frame, his eyes sparkled with the same warmth they held throughout our fifty years of marriage.
Coco, my tabby, stretched out at my feet, purring. I leaned down, scratching her behind the ears, and gently lifted Roger’s picture, feeling the familiar ache in my heart.
“I miss you so much, love. It’s been five years, but it still feels like yesterday.”
I pressed a kiss to the cold glass. “Dinner time, my love. I’ll play your favorite before bed, okay? ‘Moon River,’ just for you.”
Setting the photo back, I could almost hear his laugh. “You spoil me, Marge,” he’d say, his eyes crinkling with that smile I adored.
As I shuffled toward the kitchen, I glanced back at the piano. It had been my loyal companion for 72 years.
«What would I do without you?» I murmured, running my hand along its smooth surface.
That night, as I lay in bed, I whispered into the darkness, “Goodnight, Roger. I’ll see you in my dreams.”
The next morning, I was lost in the middle of Chopin’s «Nocturne in E-flat major» when a loud knock on my window jolted me. I stopped playing, startled, and saw a red-faced man glaring at me. He was my new neighbor.
“Hey, lady!” he yelled through the glass, his voice muffled but full of anger. “Stop that noise! You’re driving the whole neighborhood crazy with your clinking!”
I was taken aback. «I… I’m sorry,» I stammered, though a small voice inside protested. It was only 11 a.m., and no one had ever complained before.
The man stomped away, leaving me shaking. I closed the piano lid, feeling as if my sanctuary had been tainted.
The following day, I shut all the windows before playing. The music sounded stifled, but I hoped it would keep the peace.
Barely ten minutes into Beethoven’s «Moonlight Sonata,» the doorbell rang. I opened it to find a woman with a pinched face, clearly furious.
“Listen, old lady,” she hissed, “the grave is calling, and you’re still banging on that piano? Cut it out, or I’ll report you to the HOA!”
I finally realized this was the man’s wife.
Her words hit me like a slap. “I… I closed the windows,” I said, feeling weak.
«Not good enough!» she snapped, storming off. «Quit that stupid piano!»
I leaned against the door, tears filling my eyes. «Oh, Roger, what do I do?»
His voice, soft but strong, seemed to whisper back. «Play, Marge. Don’t let anyone stop you.»
But when I sat down at the piano, my fingers hovered over the keys, unable to play.
Days went by. I tried everything—cardboard over the windows, short practice sessions, even moving the piano to the basement. But the Spencers, as I called them, remained unsatisfied.
The thought of moving my beloved piano felt like severing my connection to Roger. I couldn’t bear it.
One night, forgetting my troublesome neighbors, I lost myself in the music, playing as I always had. But the next morning, when I stepped outside to tend my herb garden, I froze.
«SHUT UP!» was spray-painted across my wall in huge, angry red letters.
I sank to the ground, tears flowing. “Roger, I can’t do this anymore.”
For the first time in decades, I left my piano untouched.
As darkness fell that evening, I sat in Roger’s armchair, clutching his photo. “I’m sorry, love. I just don’t have the strength.”
The phone rang, startling me. Fumbling for the receiver, I heard my son Mark’s comforting voice on the other end.
“Mom? How are you?”
I swallowed hard. “Oh, I’m fine, sweetie. Just a quiet day.”
He paused. “You don’t sound fine. What’s going on?”
I debated telling him but eventually confessed. I explained about the new neighbors, the complaints, the graffiti. “I just feel so lost.”
“Why didn’t you say anything sooner? We could have helped,” he said.
“I didn’t want to be a burden, Mark. You’ve got your own life.”
“Mom, you’re never a burden. Your music brings joy—remember all the Christmas parties and recitals? You’re not a nuisance. You’re a gift.”
He promised to call Sara, my granddaughter, and have her come check on me.
Sara arrived a few days later, her face full of concern when she saw the graffiti. She hugged me tightly, hearing the whole story as I cried.
“Nana, how dare they treat you like this?” she fumed. “We’ll fix this.”
I shook my head, feeling defeated. «They hate my music. They hate me.»
Sara’s eyes flashed with determination. “Nana, they don’t know you. These people are about to learn what happens when they mess with the wrong pianist!”
The very next day, Sara was a whirlwind of activity. She made calls, ordered supplies, and recruited some of my longtime neighbors.
That evening, Sara placed hidden speakers around the Spencers’ house, concealed in the bushes.
When their car pulled into the driveway, she winked. “Showtime, Nana!”
As they went inside, soft piano music drifted from the speakers. They rushed out, confused. The music changed to barking dogs and car alarms, sending them in circles.
I couldn’t stop laughing, tears streaming down my face.
Sara grinned. “And now, the grand finale.” She pressed a button, filling the air with the loudest, most ridiculous fart noises I’d ever heard.
I doubled over. “Sara! You’re terrible!”
She hugged me. “Nobody messes with my Nana.”
The next morning, a crew arrived and started transforming my piano room into a soundproof studio.
“Now you can play whenever you want, Nana,” Sara said, holding my hand. “No one will tell you to stop again.”
As I sat at my freshly polished piano, my fingers trembling, I played the first notes of «Moon River.» It was like coming home.
I smiled as Sara danced around the room, raising a glass of wine. “You rock, Nana! Grandpa would be so proud.”
And as the last notes faded, I turned to her with a smile. “So am I.”