Sunday afternoons at Ana’s house meant music—her cousins brought drums, her mother sang, and Ana played old folk songs passed on by her grandparents. Laughter mixed with harmonies, mistakes became improvisations, and the house pulsed with warmth.
Ana realized the language of her family was music: disagreements softened with a duet, joys amplified by a chorus of claps and stomps. Growing up, she sometimes felt unseen, but as soon as she played, family members listened—really listened.
Know me through my music, Ana thought, as she played one final song. The refrain was one of gratitude—for connection, history, and the quiet way music made her whole.