I was just standing there in my kitchen, wiping down the counters after breakfast, when I heard my son pull into the driveway. It was a Tuesday, I think. Or maybe it was a Wednesday.

I don’t really remember the day, but I remember the way the light hit the floorboards in the kitchen.

I was humming a hymn, one of the old ones. I have always liked the music in church. Back in 1996, that was my whole life. I ran the choir with an iron fist, I guess you could say. I thought I was keeping things pure. I thought I was doing God a favor by keeping the riffraff out of the sanctuary.

The girl, Sarah, she was a Hendricks. That family was known for being a bit wild, at least that is what everyone whispered in town. When she tried out for the Easter solo, I just knew she had no business being up there in front of the congregation. I told the director she was not ready. I told him her voice lacked the spirit we needed.

That was a lie. I just didn’t want her face representing us. I wanted someone respectable. Someone from a family that went to Sunday school every single week and never caused a stir. So he gave the solo to someone else, and I felt good about it. I felt like I had done my job.

What I didn’t know then was that she was standing right behind the heavy oak door to the choir loft. She heard everything. She heard me say she wasn’t good enough. She heard me say she would never belong in that choir. She never auditioned again. She stopped singing entirely. I never thought about it again for twenty-eight years.

Then my son brought a woman home for Thanksgiving three years ago. When she walked through the front door, I just knew. I knew her eyes. I knew the way she held her head. She was the Hendricks girl. She was all grown up, but it was her.

She is my daughter-in-law now. We have shared three years of holidays together. She is a sweet girl. She always helps with the dishes. She is kind to my son. But I noticed something early on. She never sings. Not even when we go to church on Christmas. I always thought she was just shy.

Last Thanksgiving, the house was full. The turkey was on the table, and the smell of sage was thick in the air. We were all laughing about something my son said, but I kept looking at her. I kept looking at her hands folded in her lap. I just felt this weight in my chest. It had been there for a long time, I reckon.