The room was small and dim, lit by a single lamp. Eli sat on a stool in the corner with his hockey bag unzipped beside him, and an elderly man in a rink maintenance jacket stood next to him, holding a worn violin. Eli’s fingers rested on the strings. He looked up, and every drop of color left his face. “Mom,” he whispered. “Please don’t be mad.”

I could not speak. A sheet of handwritten music sat on the stand in front of him, and beside it, tucked into the open bag, was a thick envelope with my name on it. Before I could ask anything, the old man stepped between us and said gently, “Mrs. Caldwell, before you say a word, you need to know why your son has been coming here. And you need to read that envelope first.”