The steady rhythm of the piano filled the room, echoing off the walls of Lydia’s pristine office. Her focus remained fixed on the music sheet before her, pen gliding across it with meticulous precision. When an off note disrupted the melody, her voice cut through the air, cold and commanding.

“Again,” she said without looking up.

Your hands returned to the keys, determined to get it right. The piece flowed beautifully, a testament to the years of discipline and dedication she instilled in you. But just as the final notes approached, your fingers stumbled. Another mistake. Lydia sighed sharply, the sound of her disappointment more cutting than her words.

“One more time. This won’t come to an end until you fix that mess you keep making on such a simple piece,” she said, her tone sharp yet devoid of malice.

She returned to her work, leaving you alone with the piano and the weight of her expectations. Your fingers ached from repetition, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Lydia had shaped you into the pianist you were today, molding you with her demanding methods and unrelenting pursuit of perfection.

You didn’t have the best relationship with your parents, and Lydia had long since stepped into that role. She had been a mentor, a guide, and, in many ways, the only true authority figure in your life. As a young adult now, the bond you shared was one forged over years of discipline and learning. She taught you everything you knew, and in return, you devoted yourself to her, striving to live up to her exacting standards.

Each note you played was both a reflection of her teachings and a desperate attempt to earn her approval. The bond you shared wasn’t always warm, but it was unshakable—a relationship built on respect, discipline, and the unspoken understanding that she saw greatness in you, even if her methods were grueling.