Never a Hero

town. The restaurant and the tattoo parlor. Nothing escaped her disdain.
    Had it always been that way?
    I remembered all the vile things she’d said to me over the years, but this time I made myself think beyond them. I thought back to Easter Sundays and Thanksgivings when she’d complained of the work and the mess. Christmas mornings when she’d moaned that nobody had bothered to get her anything nice. Vacations where everything was wrong from the flight to the hotel to the swimsuit-invading sand at the beach.
    My mother had never once been happy, and with the narcissism of a child, I’d assumed it was because of me. But I realized now with a sudden, blinding clarity, it wasn’t.
    It was because of her .
    Such a simple revelation, but it was liberating. I wasn’t responsible for her or her foul disposition. The realization felt so momentous that I laughed out loud. So many years of trying to please her, and for what? Just to give her more ammunition to throw my way?
    Not anymore. It was over. Never again would I question myself because of her.
    I was free.
    My first thought was how I wished Nick was with me. I wished I could tell him what I’d learned, share my victory with him, but hot on the heels of that thought came a wave of sadness. I’d pushed my way into Nick’s apartment, needing him like never before, and he’d delivered. But as soon as it was over, he’d pulled away again.
    The night suddenly felt colder, and I hugged myself with my good arm.
    Maybe I’d been wrong to push him. Maybe I’d been selfish. And yet, I was sure he needed me as much as I needed him. Maybe more. We loved each other. We belonged together. I knew it, deep in my heart, but I had no idea how to deal with his thickheadedness. The only thing I could think of was to continue beating at the ridiculously noble intentions he shielded himself with. They were stupid and pointless, but he held onto them so tightly. I wanted to rip them away and shine a light on them, reveal them for what they really were—a way for him to punish himself for a mistake he’d made in his youth. It was infuriating and exhausting, and I wasn’t sure how many more times I could swallow the pain of rejection.
    I sighed, unable to reclaim the glory of having told off my mother. I felt more lost than ever.
    I rounded the corner and saw the church ahead of me, its lights twinkling in the dark like some kind of beacon, but whether of damnation and salvation, I couldn’t be sure. Thoughts of both my mother and Nick began to fade into the background. The reality of what was to come became clear in my mind, my sole point of focus. Fear blossomed in my stomach. Not the mindless panic I would have felt two months earlier, but a nervous kind of excitement that made my stomach buzz and my heart pound.
    I can do this. But even in my mind, I balked, so I said the words out loud. “I can do this.” It helped.
    A little.
    Nick had driven, and so of course he had beaten me to the church. I found him waiting for me by the door. I stopped in front of him, still angry, still confused, but also scared and badly in need of reassurance.
    He smiled as he held the door open for me, although the happiness of it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ll do fine.”
    “Where have you guys been?” June said when we walked in. She was a twitchy bundle of nerves. It didn’t help soothe my own growing anxiety.
    “Just running late,” I said.
    “Well, come on! They’ll be starting any minute!”
    I glanced around as we found our seats. My mother was nowhere to be seen. I’d expected that, but I didn’t see my father either. Nathan was there, though, waving at me from the back of the room. It made me nervous, knowing he was there, but it felt great too, knowing he’d come just to support me.
    June, Nick, and I found an open space big enough for the three of us on one of the cold, hard pews. I sat with Nick on my left and June on my right. I looked up at the piano, sitting at the front of the room. I looked around at the many, many faces. All the people who would see me walk to the front of the room, amputated arm and all. All the people who would hear me play.
    Maybe my mother was right. Maybe I should quit.
    No. Not now. You can do this.
    Beginning students went first, which should have worked to our advantage, but Amelia had decided to put all the duets later in the program, before the more advanced students played their pieces. Three other students played “Ode to