My sister broke my violin over her knee less than twenty minutes before the most important performance of my life.

Then she looked down at the splintered wood on the dressing-room floor and said,

“Maybe now you’ll stop being so selfish.”

For a few seconds, I couldn’t even breathe.

That violin had belonged to my grandfather.

He was the one who taught me my first chafar scale when I was four.

He corrected the way I held my bow when I was eight.

And when he died, he left the instrument to me.

That evening, I was scheduled to perform the final movement of Sibelius with the New York Metropolitan Youth Orchestra.

The audience would include donors, critics, and directors from three prestigious conservatories.

It was the biggest opportunity I had ever been given.

And my sister Vanessa had just destroyed my grandfather’s violin because I refused to give her my new dress.