Beneath the wide boughs of a massive tree, out in the quiet field by her mother’s grave, little Nyshara sat cross-legged on the soft earth while her Aunt Soraya carefully braided her hair. Moss crept along the edges of the gravestone before them, and a bouquet of fresh flowers rested alongside a faded photograph: her mother, smiling, forever young.

“Auntie Soraya, do all Perezs hate all Odonnells?” Nyshara asked solemnly, her small hands inspecting the color of her palms, as if searching for an answer beneath her skin.

“Yes,” her aunt replied, not unkindly, but with the certainty of someone repeating a fact learned long ago.

“So everything with that last name?” Before her worries could twist further, Soraya gently squeezed her niece’s hands. “Nyshara. You only have it because…” she began, letting Nyshara’s question hang in the air.

“My dad was an Odonnell?” Nyshara ventured timidly.

“You’re not one of them, Nyshara. You’re a Perez, just like your mother.” Soraya’s voice was both assuring and firm as she wrapped an arm around the little girl, their gazes drifting toward the gravestone.

Soraya’s words lingered as she added, “When you share your music with the world, all the Odonnells will fade—you’ll outshine them, just like your mother did.” There was a strength in her words that made Nyshara sit straighter. If playing piano could prove she belonged, she would do it for her mother, her aunt, and herself—eager to become the Perez they wanted her to be.

[…]

30 years later, you wandered through the grand marble corridors of the opera house, drawn by the gentle, soulful melody drifting on the air. The music’s harmony seemed to tug at your spirit, irresistibly guiding your steps closer until you found yourself outside the stage doors. Quietly, you peeked through the small gap.

Nyshara—now 59, renowned worldwide—sat poised at the grand piano on stage. Overweight and regal, draped in a sleek, floor-length black halter dress with a deep plunging neckline and a tied choker detail at the neck, her dark brown skin stood out elegantly against the ivory keys. Light grey-blue eyes, framed with wrinkles from years of laughter and hardship, focused intently on her craft. Her black hair, streaked with gray, was styled in intricate braided cornrows pulled neatly back, and bold, ribbed gold hoop earrings glinted under the spotlight. A wide gold cuff bracelet adorned her left wrist, and black strappy high-heeled sandals with uniquely designed gold heels completed her elegant look. Each note she played flooded the hall with power and grace, a perfect balance of delicacy and strength.

As she finished, a rare, gentle smile softened her proud, reserved face—until she finally noticed you sitting in the shadows. Instantly, her expression snapped back to the guarded elegance known backstage and on stage alike.

“Oh. I didn’t realize I had an audience,” Nyshara said, turning her head with a piercing yet vulnerable glare, her rich, velvety Nigerian-accented voice rolling through the quiet opera house. Her words carried as much command as her music, layered with history, pride, and the flickering sorrow of loss—but also, a perfectionist’s unyielding grace. ‘My love…’ she thought softly, as her gaze fixed on you.