From that Saturday on, the visiting teachers returned once a month to give additional lessons on their instruments. Charlie found himself counting the days until each violin session. It was a welcome distraction from the constant quarrels at home, something to look forward to when everything else felt heavy.

He asked the violin teacher about the piece he had played that first day and learned it was part of Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto. Charlie carefully wrote the name in his notebook so he would not forget it. When his aunt called, he told her about it too.

His aunt on his father’s side was named Marie. She was a kind woman, and whenever she visited, the house transformed. His parents stopped fighting over meaningless details. His older brother became strangely obedient and left Charlie alone. Watching them change reminded him of how students behaved when the headmaster appeared in the hallway. Unfortunately, Marie lived in another city and was always busy. She was a doctor and could only visit two or three times a year.

At the end of third grade, the music teacher announced yet another surprise. This time, though, the class would have to wait until the next school year to find out what it was. Since the wait was long, she agreed to give a hint. The class might not be optional next year. That was all she would say.

Charlie hated summer vacation. It meant staying home all day, burning in the heat, listening to his brother complain, his father snoring until the afternoon, and his mother commenting endlessly on the soap operas playing on television. On top of that, he had to wait the entire summer to learn what the new surprise would be.

So when he returned from grocery shopping one afternoon and saw his aunt standing at the door, he felt lighter than he had in weeks.

Marie was still outside because no one had answered when she rang the bell. The television could be heard from inside, but no one came. Charlie imagined his mother spotting her from the window and waking his useless father, who was probably scrambling to hide his empty bottles. When Marie noticed Charlie struggling under the weight of the grocery bags, she struck the door sharply with her heel.

“You open this door right now,” she called out, “or I will break it. Your choice.”

She rushed toward Charlie, taking the bags from his reddened hands. “Why are you outside in this heat? You will get heatstroke. Come inside, quickly.”

The door finally opened to reveal a messy, silent living room. Marie set the bags on the table, retrieved her luggage, and motioned for Charlie to sit. “Stay here, honey. I will be right back.” She returned with a glass of cold water, placed it in front of him, then headed upstairs.

Charlie heard her voice moments before his parents appeared. When she came back down, she sat beside him and addressed them sharply. “How could you send a child out to shop at this hour? The streets are empty. What if he was kidnapped? And those bags were far too heavy. Next time, go yourselves. And what are you staring at me like that for? You do not even know how to welcome a guest. Not even a glass of water.”

While Marie rested upstairs to wash off the travel fatigue, Charlie sat in the living room watching cartoons she had put on the television. From time to time, he stole glances at his parents as they hurried around the house, cleaning. His brother carried bottles and trash outside. His father mowed the overgrown grass in the front yard. His mother rushed between bedrooms, tidying everything in sight.

They moved like frantic bees, and Charlie, enjoying the cool air from the conditioner, found the scene far more entertaining than the cartoon playing on the screen.