The Widower (18+) | [Complete]

Sixteen

It was an hour before the show and the widower still had not made it to the loft. He had changed his flight, that much I knew, but whether he made that flight or not, I had no idea. "Where could he be?" I asked our driver, Colin. "Did he plan to meet us there?"

"I don't believe so," he said with a look of disappointment.

I rolled my eyes. "How much longer can we wait before we're late?"

"About 15 minutes, ma'am."

"He's not coming." Matthew strolled in, looking dapper in his tuxedo. His hair was gelled and styled like his father's, he even had the signature Montgomery look of annoyance on his face.

It bothered me how alike they were, yet they couldn't get along to save themselves. I walked over to straighten his bow tie, lifting his chin when his gaze fell to my chest. "He will be there. Have a little faith."

Matthew gave me an incredulous look.

. . .

We arrived and I spent the extra few minutes we had taking pictures of the family and solos of Sebastian in his tiny tuxedo. When it was time, we took Sebastian to check in.

He gripped my hand as we made our way backstage. Once we reached the point where I could go no further, he pulled me to a stop and squeezed my hand with both of his.

He looked up at me. I kneeled to look him in the eyes. "Are you nervous?" I asked him. He nodded, his brow furrowing. "It's good to be nervous sometimes. It's how we know we're doing something that matters."

"It is?"

"Yes." I ran my fingers over the front of his hair to make sure it stayed in place. "I was nervous the first time I met you. Because you matter to me." His mouth turned up into a smile. "I cannot wait to see you on that stage. You are going to do great."

"But what if I mess up?"

"Mistakes are okay. They are a part of life—an important part. But, no matter what happens out there, I will still be so, so proud of you."

"You will?"

"Of course I will. Always remember that." I kissed him goodbye. "Break a leg," I whispered to him. He smiled, then went with the attendant backstage. I stood and watched him disappear down the hallway.

"Are you Sebastian's mother?" a woman asked me.

I turned to her while the pang in my chest made my smile fade away. "Oh, no. I'm just his nanny."

"Oh, my apologies," she said with a smile. "I just wanted to let you know how lovely he has been in class. He is surprisingly humble for someone with such talent."

"That's wonderful to hear. Thank you."

"Please give my regards to his father. He raised a star student."

I smiled politely as she walked away, then under my breath muttered, "He didn't raise shit." I turned to find Matthew smiling at me. "Don't tell your father about any of this."

He laughed.

. . .

We were ushered to our seats on the balcony and I was once again let down when we found it empty. We sat and waited. And waited.

When the show began, the first young artist playing Bach's Suite No. 1 Prelude nearly flawlessly. A string quartet by a group of students all near the age of ten followed. Performance after performance, I had to remind myself that these were children—young children at that.