The music I played on my piano was my last connection to my late husband. However, that joy was cruelly shattered when my neighbors left a hurtful note on my wall. Thankfully, my granddaughter discovered what happened, and she found a way to teach them a valuable lesson they wouldn’t forget.
I finished playing “Clair de Lune” and turned toward the framed photo of my husband, Jerry. “Did you like that, darling?” I asked softly, imagining his presence in the room. The music always reminded me of him, and even though he was gone, I still played for him every day.
Willie, my old tabby cat, stretched near my feet as I bent down to scratch behind his ears. I held Jerry’s photo in my hands and whispered, “I miss you so much. It’s been five years, but sometimes it feels like you were just here yesterday.”
I kissed the cool glass frame gently. “I’ll play ‘Moon River’ for you tonight, just like always.” As I set the picture down, I could almost hear his warm laugh, teasing me, “You spoil me, Bessie.”
Later that morning, as I lost myself in Chopin’s “Nocturne,” a sudden loud knock startled me. I fumbled with the piano keys, stopping abruptly. I looked up to see my new neighbor, red-faced and glaring at me through the window.
“Hey! Stop with the racket! You’re waking up the whole neighborhood with your terrible noise!” he shouted, his voice muffled but furious.
I was stunned. “I… I’m so sorry,” I managed to stammer. It wasn’t even late—it was just 11 a.m., and no one had ever complained before. The man stormed away, leaving me trembling. The music I loved so much suddenly felt tainted.
The next day, I made sure to close all the windows before I played, hoping it would keep the peace. But barely ten minutes into Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” the doorbell rang again. I answered it reluctantly, and there stood a woman, glaring at me. She was the wife of my neighbor.
“Cut the noise, old lady!” she spat. “The grave’s calling, and you’re still banging on that piano! If you don’t stop, I’ll report you!”
I felt like I’d been slapped. I weakly explained that I’d closed all the windows, but she snapped back, “It’s not enough! Stop making that awful noise!”
I closed the door in tears, asking Jerry, “What do I do now?”
Days passed, and I tried everything to keep the peace—cardboard over the windows, playing only for short periods—but nothing worked. I even considered moving the piano to the basement. The idea of separating myself from my beloved instrument, the one thing that connected me to Jerry, made my heart ache.
The final blow came when I went outside one morning and saw “SHUT UP” spray-painted in angry red letters across my wall. I broke down, sobbing. “I can’t do this anymore, Jerry,” I whispered.
When my granddaughter, Melissa, heard what happened, she was furious. “They don’t even know you, Nana,” she said, holding my hands firmly. “These people are about to learn what happens when they mess with my Nana!”
The next day, she set up hidden speakers around their house. When they came home, soft piano music began to play, confusing them. Then, the music switched to barking dogs and car alarms. Finally, Melissa pressed a button, unleashing the most ridiculous fart noises, and we laughed until tears streamed down our faces.
Melissa hugged me tightly. “No one messes with you, Nana. And now, you can keep playing as loud as you want.”
The next morning, a crew arrived to install soundproofing in my piano room. Melissa squeezed my hand. “You’re free to play whenever you want, Nana. No one will ever stop you again.”
As I played “Moon River” that night, I felt whole again. Surrounded by music and love, I knew Jerry was listening, smiling down on me.
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