The Chicago Youth Conservatory was where Caroline found him, the man whose name still tastes metallic in my mouth: Gregory Halden, a private piano instructor with a résumé polished enough to silence skepticism.
Former adjunct at a respected music institute, competition adjudicator, known for “pushing students beyond perceived limits,” which in certain circles is code for intensity masquerading as excellence. Caroline was impressed immediately, and I will admit that I was too, because in affluent communities pedigree becomes shorthand for trust, and trust, when wrapped in credentials, rarely invites scrutiny.
That afternoon, before the recital, our condo felt almost celebratory; the skyline shimmered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, Lake Michigan reflecting the pale light of early evening, and Ava’s recital dress lay across her bed like a small promise of applause to come, a deep navy silk that Caroline had insisted would photograph better than white, because even joy in our home had begun to anticipate documentation.
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