The first sign something was happening was the silence.
Too much silence.
You stood in the kitchen halfway through drying dishes, narrowed your eyes toward the living room, and called out, “Why is it quiet?”
From the recliner, Wayne didn’t even look up from the paper.
“Means they’re either bein’ sweet,” he said, “or committing a felony.”
A pause.
Then—very faintly—
Bwwaaang.
Not quite a guitar note. More like a guitar being politely startled.
You set the towel down and walked toward the sound.
The living room was lit gold with late afternoon sun. Toys were scattered like landmines. One tiny sneaker sat in the middle of the rug for reasons known only to God and Ramona. And in the center of it all sat Eddie Munson cross-legged on the floor, his beloved guitar resting across his lap.
Beside him, in a bat-print romper with applesauce on one knee, sat Ramona Anne Munson.
Her own posture matched his exactly: crossed legs, serious face, chin lifted in concentration.
Eddie glanced up when he saw you and grinned immediately.
“Welcome,” he said in a stage whisper, “to the first annual Munson School of Rock.”
Ramona gasped.
“Rock!”
“That’s right, baby. Rock.”
She slapped both hands on her knees dramatically.
Wayne appeared in the doorway behind you like he’d been summoned by nonsense.
“The hell’s this?”
“Education,” Eddie said.
Ramona pointed at Wayne.
“Sit down.”
Wayne blinked.
You bit the inside of your cheek to stop laughing.
Eddie patted the carpet beside him. “Today’s lesson is rhythm.”
He gently tapped the body of the guitar.
Thump-thump. Thump.
Ramona’s eyes widened like she’d witnessed divine revelation.
Then she smacked both palms onto the guitar with enough enthusiasm to wake the dead.
BWANGGG.
Wayne winced. “Lord.”
Eddie, however, looked like she’d composed a symphony.
“Yes! Aggressive. Raw. Honest. Very punk.”
Ramona beamed.
Again she hit it.
BWANG.
Again.
BWANG.
Then she threw her head back, curls flying, and yelled:
“YEAHHHH!”
You laughed so hard you had to grab the wall.
Eddie nearly fell over with pride.
“That’s my girl.”
He adjusted the guitar lower and guided her tiny hand toward the strings.
“Okay, gentle now. Like this.”
He helped her drag her fingers downward.
A rough little chord rang out.
Ramona froze.
Her mouth opened.
She turned slowly to look at him, eyes enormous.
“I DID IT.”
“You did,” Eddie said softly, like he couldn’t quite believe it either.
She jumped to her feet.
“I A MUSICIAN!”
Wayne snorted. “You’re loud, I’ll give ya that.”
Ramona spun in a circle, then pointed dramatically at Eddie’s amp in the corner.
“That one.”
“No, no, sweetheart, we don’t plug in until you’re at least…” Eddie looked at you. “…thirty?”
“Reasonable,” you said.
Ramona stomped one foot.
“NOW.”
Eddie sighed with theatrical misery. “She has my temperament.”
“She has your everything,” you said.
He looked weirdly pleased by that.
A compromise was reached: the amp stayed off, but Eddie slung the guitar strap over his shoulder and stood up.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced to the room, “for one night only—Miss Ramona Anne Munson!”
Ramona ran in circles screaming.
Wayne folded the newspaper and sat down fully now, resigned to the show.
Eddie played a bright, silly riff while she danced with complete abandon—arms flailing, knees pumping, one sock half off.
Then, in the middle of the chaos, she ran back to him, grabbed his jeans, and shouted:
“UP!”
He scooped her easily onto his hip without missing a note.
She patted the strings proudly while perched against him, then leaned close and whispered much too loudly:
“I love Daddy guitar.”
Eddie stopped playing.
Just stopped.
The room went soft around the edges.
He looked at her, then at you, eyes suspiciously shiny.
“You love Daddy guitar, huh?”
She nodded seriously.
“And Daddy.”
His face crumpled in the tiniest, happiest way.
“And Daddy too?”
She kissed his cheek with a sticky applesauce mouth.
Wayne cleared his throat and stood abruptly.
“Need another coffee.”