What's a tragedy that EATS you up inside?

What's a tragedy that EATS you up inside?

My daughter Emma was seven when she started asking for piano lessons. Every day after school, she'd bang on our old keyboard, making up these little songs that actually sounded pretty good.

I kept saying we'd get her lessons when money got better. We were barely making rent, and piano lessons cost eighty dollars a month. That was groceries for a week back then.

Emma never complained though. She'd just keep playing that broken keyboard, missing three keys and held together with duct tape. She'd watch YouTube videos on my phone, trying to teach herself how to read music.

She'd spend hours at that thing, playing the same simple songs over and over until she got them perfect. Mary Had a Little Lamb, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Her little fingers barely reached the keys properly.

For her eighth birthday, she asked for just one thing. Real piano lessons with a real teacher. I had to tell her we couldn't afford it, but maybe next year when dad got his promotion at the factory.

Emma smiled and said okay, then went to her room and played happy birthday to herself on that stupid keyboard. I could hear her through the thin walls, playing the same song over and over, making up her own harmony parts.

My wife kept telling me we should find a way. Maybe cut cable or eat rice and beans for a month. But I was stubborn. I wanted to provide everything properly, not scrape by for luxuries.

Two weeks later, I got the promotion. Fifty percent raise, better benefits, everything we needed. I was so excited to surprise Emma with those piano lessons she wanted so badly.

I called three different music schools that same day. Found this teacher named Mrs. Patterson who had great reviews and worked with kids. She had an opening and could start Emma the following Monday.

I planned this whole surprise. Was going to take Emma to the music store, let her pick out some beginner books, maybe even look at a real piano for Christmas.

That Friday night, I picked up pizza to celebrate my promotion. Emma was upstairs practicing when I got home. I could hear her playing this beautiful melody she'd made up herself, something sad but hopeful.

I was about to call her down for dinner when the music stopped. Just complete silence. I figured she was coming downstairs, so I set the table and waited for her little footsteps.

After ten minutes, I went upstairs to get her. Found Emma collapsed on the floor next to her keyboard. She'd had a massive brain aneurysm. Seven years old, perfectly healthy, no warning signs whatsoever.

The paramedics said it was instant. She wouldn't have felt any pain. But all I could think about was that stupid keyboard and how I'd made her wait two years for something that cost eighty dollars a month.

At the hospital, they gave me her backpack from school. Inside was this drawing she'd made during art class that morning. It showed two stick figures at a real piano, one big and one small.

At the bottom, in her messy second-grade handwriting, it said "Me and Daddy when I learn real piano." She'd drawn little musical notes floating all around us, and we both had huge smiles on our faces.

I found out later that Emma had been saving her allowance for six months. Five dollars a week in this little mason jar hidden under her bed. She had forty dollars saved up to help pay for her own lessons.

The jar had a note taped to it that said "For piano teacher so Daddy doesn't worry about money." She was planning to surprise me with it on my birthday next month.

Mrs. Patterson came to the funeral. She told me Emma had called her school three times, asking how much lessons cost and if she could pay with allowance money and drawings. She wanted to make sure she could afford it.

The keyboard is still in Emma's room, exactly where she left it. Sometimes I sit there and try to play the songs she made up, but I can never get them right. Her melodies were too complex for my clumsy fingers.

That promotion money? I donated it all to the school's music program. Now twenty kids get free piano lessons every year. There's a little plaque that says "Emma's Music Fund" next to the piano in the music room.

But every night, I lie awake thinking about those two years. Two years when eighty dollars felt impossible. Two years when my daughter practiced on a broken keyboard, dreaming of real lessons she never got to have.

Two years when I chose financial caution over my child's passion. She died thinking piano lessons were too expensive for our family, never knowing I was about to surprise her with everything she'd ever wanted.