(Amelia)
My parents came for Emilia in the evening, though they stayed long enough to make it clear who they'd really come to see.
My mother swept in first, arms already open, and went straight past me to my sister. "There she is. There's my star." She held Emilia at arm's length and looked at her the way you look at something you're proud to own. "You've gotten thinner. Are they feeding you over there? Tell me everything. I want to hear about Vienna, all of it."
My father followed, quieter, but his eyes found Emilia too and warmed the way they never quite did for me. He kissed the top of her head. "The whole city's talking about you back home. Do you know that? People stop us. They ask if the pianist is our girl."
"She is," my mother said. "She is our girl."
I stood by the window and
