15. Millie #2
"Was he right?" Joseph asks, his voice low.
I nod.
My parents supported it at first. They thought it was sweet.
A hobby. But when I got older and it became clear I was serious, when I told them I was going to pursue it as a career and move to Boston, they didn't take it well.
Too risky. Too exposed. Too much for someone who couldn't even introduce herself in an audition room.
Joseph's jaw tightens. He doesn't say anything, but I can see it land on him. The idea of someone telling me I was too much.
My grandfather had to step in. He told them I had a gift and they were going to bury it if they kept being afraid.
I pause. I look at my coffee. My throat is tight and I'm not going to cry in a cafe, but it's close.
I type: He passed away five years ago. I still miss him every time I play. Sometimes I think I play for him more than for anyone in the audience.
Joseph reads it. He's quiet for a moment, his eyes on the screen, like someone who just heard something that matters and needs a second to sit with the weight of it.
"He must be so proud of you, Millie."
I nod. I think he would be.
I mention my younger sister. She's eight years younger than me so there's always been a gap.
We're not close. When she was born, my parents shifted.
She could speak. She was "normal." They fussed over her in a way that was different from how they fussed over me.
Less worry. More joy. A part of me was grateful for that, honestly.
It meant they stopped hovering over me as much.
She never learned ASL. Never tried. I don't elaborate.
He's quiet for a moment after he reads everything.
Then he says, "Yeah. I get that. Family can be tricky.
" He turns his coffee cup in his hands. "When my mom was eighteen, she got pregnant with me.
My biological father wanted nothing to do with it.
Just gone. And her family, they were traditional Chinese, very traditional, and a teen pregnancy before marriage was basically the worst thing that could happen. They cut her off. She was on her own."
There's no self-pity in his voice. Just the facts of his life laid out on a cafe table between us.
"She raised me alone for six years. Two jobs.
No help. She didn't complain. She just did it.
" He looks at me. "Then she met my stepdad.
Good man. Quiet. Steady. The kind of guy who shows up and stays.
He treated me like his own son, loved my mom the way she deserved and just a few months after they got married, my mom was pregnant with my sister. "
He tells me about his sister. They're close, but they don't see each other as often as he'd like. Different schedules. Different lives. She's busy with her work, he's busy with his. They talk on the phone when they can.
"I mentioned before my sister plays the violin too.
And piano. And guitar. Whatever instrument she's interested in, she can learn it.
She's talented in a way that's hard to explain.
At first we all thought it was just a hobby.
Something she loved. And it is. But we also learned later that it was her escape. "
He pauses, takes a sip of coffee, and sets it down.
"When she was around ten, she pushed a kid off a slide at school.
Out of nowhere. No warning. She was never aggressive.
She was the sweetest kid, always sharing, always laughing.
So when it happened, we were confused. My mom got called in and we all just assumed it was a bad day. Kids have bad days."
He's quiet for a moment, turning his cup a slow quarter-circle on the table, then back. Whatever he's deciding how to say, it costs him something to get to it.
"But then it kept happening. Not the pushing, but the swings. She'd have these stretches where she was on top of the world. Couldn't sleep, couldn't stop talking, writing music at three in the morning, making plans that didn't make sense."
He shakes his head, like even now the next part doesn't make sense to him.
"Then she'd crash. Completely. Wouldn't leave her room. Wouldn't eat. Wouldn't answer the phone. We didn't know what it was. We just thought she was moody. Teenagers are moody, right?"
He looks at his coffee.
"Then in her teens she hurt herself. Bad enough that she ended up in the hospital. That's when we found out. Bipolar I disorder. She was sixteen."
He says it plainly. No dramatic pause. No softening. Just the truth of his sister's life, offered to me because he trusts me with it.
"After the diagnosis, the hardest part was the medication.
Finding the right one. She hated taking pills.
She'd complain that they made her feel flat, like all her colors got turned down.
She'd stop taking them, and we'd be back to square one.
" He pauses, and his eyes find mine, like he wants to be sure I'm hearing this part.
"But music always helped. Even on her worst days, if she could play, she could get through it. For her, music isn't about ambition. It's survival."
He looks at his hands. I wait.
"I became really protective of her after that. Probably too protective. She calls me out on it sometimes. Says I hover. Says I try to fix things that aren't mine to fix."
He rubs a thumb along the edge of the table, not looking at me for a second.
"She's probably right. But I watched her go through some really bad episodes, and I just don't ever want her to feel alone in it. I'd do anything to keep that from happening." He looks up. "Anything."
I listen to all of it. And sitting across from him, so much about him clicks into place.
Why he stayed when the pregnancy test came back positive. Why he offered me his apartment without hesitating. Why he fills every room with noise and warmth and humor. He grew up watching his mother do it alone. Everything he's done since has been to make sure no one around him has to.
And now he's here. With me.
I reach across the table and take his hand. He looks down at our fingers and then back at me. I don't type anything. I don't sign. I just hold on.
I want to tell him that he's not alone, that I'm here. But I can't. So for now, this is enough.