Marcus paused. The memory was still sharp. Even after all these years, he could still feel the hot sun on that day. He could still hear the sounds of the workers around him. He could still smell the dust and concrete.
"The scaffolding collapsed," he continued. "Metal pipes came down. I tried to catch myself, but it was too late. My left hand was crushed. Three fingers were broken in multiple places. The doctors did everything they could, but they told me I would never play professionally again."
Angela gasped softly. She looked down at her own hands. She tried to imagine what that must have felt like: to have a gift and lose it in one terrible moment.
"I spent two years recovering," Marcus said. "Physical therapy, surgery, more therapy. But it was not the same. My hand was not the same. I could play simple things, but not the way I used to, not the way I needed to."
He took a deep breath. This was the hardest part to explain.
"So, I disappeared. I moved to a new city. I changed my life. I became a construction worker for real. I met your mother. We had you and your brother. I built a new life. A simple life. A life without music."
"But why didn't you tell us?" Angela's voice cracked. "We were your family. We had a right to know."
Marcus felt tears forming in his eyes. She was right. Of course, she was right. But the truth was complicated.
"I was ashamed," he admitted. "I was ashamed of losing my gift. I was ashamed of giving up. I thought if I told you, you would see me differently. You would see a failure instead of your father."
"Dad, no," Angela said, crying now. "I could never see you as a failure. Never."
"I know that now," Marcus whispered. "I should have trusted you. I should have trusted your mother. But the pain was too deep. I buried it so far down that I almost forgot it myself. Almost."