it was a cool summer evening in july, and you were at home preparing dinner for your family while your daughter was sat at the kitchen island, drawing in her notebook with a few crayons spread across the marble surface. your husband was still at work, so it was just your six month pregnant self, and your three year old daughter.

you were making pasta, as requested by your daughter, and you had your husband’s music quietly playing in the background, also requested by your daughter. she loves her parents dearly, which means that she misses her dad on a daily, even if he just went to the studio to work for a few hours. listening to his music brings her a sense of comfort, as it does to you.

your daughter tallulah always said that she wants to be a musician like her parents, and you could tell she has lots of potential; she already has a great sense of rhythm (for a three year old), and you both caught her staring at your instruments, strumming at your guitars, and slamming the keys of the piano in will’s office. monkey see, monkey do, no?

“mama, when’s daddy coming home?” your daughter asked, peering up at you with her dark, doe eyes that she got from her father, a red crayon in her hand and a flower shaped clip keeping her bangs out of her eyes.