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seductive. I did all the research, constantly pricing just how much it would cost, and mapping a barter system for the household chores, so that I could show I was willing to earn it. My parents seemed to be softening a bit.
    â€œI played clarinet in high school,” my stepmother confessed. “Such a honky thing. There’s no way you’re bringing that screechy instrument into this house. You’ll drive me crazy.”
    â€œOkay. Okay? Not saxophone then,” I conceded. “Maybe something else then? Anything . . . I’ll play anything. I just want to join the band.”
    â€œIf you do this, it’s got to be something we can afford. We can’t afford all the broken reeds and what-nots.”
    Was this a light at the end of the tunnel?
    Christmas that year came and went, but by spring the word came down. The words I had longed to hear for years.
    â€œThere’s a program for private lessons through the city parks and recreation department this summer. Maybe it would be a good way for you to catch up with the other kids,” my stepmother finally offered.
    â€œ Yes! Yes!” I thought to myself. I couldn’t believe it. But the rush of satisfaction quickly came to a halt when I realized that I was facing an agonizing decision.
    Summer was the time that I spent with my mother. As it stood, we scarcely had enough time together. One factor that had led to an extended visit was that she had moved farther away from my hometown, making it difficult to keep up what was once our bimonthly schedule. We compromised with fewer visits during the school year by spending entire summer breaks with her. It wasn’t lost on me what a predicament I was in.
    I tried to maneuver without loss. “Maybe I could practice while I’m at Mom’s?” I hoped aloud.
    As usual, my options came down with limited discussion. “You want to play; you have to stay here for the summer. It’s an option for both you girls if you want it,” she expanded. “We can go down to the music shop and pick out an instrument that we can afford, but it has to stay here.”
    There it was. I was twelve years old, facing what would ultimately be a life-changing decision. Which sacrifice would I choose? That of losing the summer spent with my mother, or never getting to play?
    Before I committed, I consulted with my sister.
    She didn’t seem flummoxed by options. There would be no drawing of straws to see which way we went together. I tried to convince her to join me, but music didn’t seem to have the hold on her that it did on me. Her choice was going to Mom’s. Whatever decision I made, it was going to be a choice I made on my own.
    It would be the crossroads that would ultimately alter both our lives. Never before had we experienced being apart for more than the hours when we were at school in separate classrooms. We were developing our own identities, each with individual and unique desires. My imagination was captured with the call of music in a way in which she did not share. Faced with the opportunity to realize my dream, the idea of deciding against it seemed a choice against myself.
    I knew what I wanted, apart from anyone else’s influence. I wanted music. I chose to stay and she chose to go. I didn’t know it then, but those days before the summer came would be the last we would share under the same roof.

    I WILL NEVER forget the day that my stepmother took me down to our town’s only music store to buy my first horn. It was memorable in so many ways.
    I was filled with excitement and unease in equal parts.Strained as my stepmother’s and my relationship was, we had little practice in how to share such a personal moment together. So fierce had words been between us at times, that I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of caution. I wondered if I could trust her to know just how momentous this occasion was for me. I had dreamed about this