You’ve never truly understood classical music, although you suppose it is beautiful when played correctly. The intricacies of it, you are unashamed to admit, go a bit above your head. Still, you’ve gone to enough symphonies with your husband to know that the violinist is playing masterfully. It’s Vivaldi you think, one of the four seasons, perhaps Spring, although you do not know for sure. His attention is focussed entirely on his newborn, another daughter you recall your husband telling you, laying in her crib, a delighted smile on his face as she quieted, falling asleep to her fathers playing.