A Steinway Won’t Buy Back My Hands

Seven years after I divorced Wyatt Simmons, I ran into him at a piano showroom. I was there to buy my daughter an upright for her practice room.

The sales associate left me halfway through a question and hurried over to greet him.

“Mr. Simmons. Another piano for your wife? She’s a lucky woman.”

I’d seen restaurant owners walk away from full tables to greet Wyatt’s father. The Simmons name still got people moving.

Wyatt looked past the associate and saw me.

“Let her pick one, too,” he said. “Put it on my account.”