Then something beside the keyboard made me stop.
A battered black guitar with a small silver star sticker near the neck.
My guitar.
I’d bought it secondhand at sixteen and played it almost every day until the arguments with Dad became unbearable. Eventually, it disappeared during one of my attempts to clear out my room. I’d assumed I’d accidentally thrown it away.
Yet there it was, sitting on a stand with fresh strings. I picked it up, turning it over in my hands. Someone had even repaired the crack near the bridge.
My throat tightened.
For the first time, I wondered whether Dad had built this place for someone other than himself.
For me. But why would he? And why did he grow to hate music so much?
I lowered the guitar carefully onto its stand.
On the table beside the mixing desk sat a small flash drive. I picked it up and noticed a piece of tape wrapped around it. In Dad’s handwriting were two words:
“Our Band.”
A computer stood nearby. I plugged in the drive and found a single video file.
I clicked “Play.”
The screen flickered, then filled with grainy footage of four young men rehearsing in a cramped garage.
There was Dad, his hair falling past his shoulders, playing guitar with a cigarette tucked behind his ear.
“Come on, Marcus!” he shouted at the drummer. “My grandma can keep a better beat than that!”
“Then invite her to join the band!”
Everyone burst out laughing.
The video jumped between old performances, backstage footage, and ridiculous moments from rehearsals. At one point, Dad attempted to jump off a speaker and landed flat on his backside. In another clip, the bassist accidentally knocked over an entire tray of drinks.
I laughed until my eyes watered.
I’d never seen Dad like this. He was loud, funny, full of energy. Nothing like the man who barely spoke to me over breakfast.
Then the footage suddenly stopped. The screen went black.
A few seconds later, Dad appeared.
Not the young musician I’d just been watching, but the man I’d buried that morning.
He was sitting in the very studio where I stood now. His face was thin, and the cancer had taken most of his hair.
“Hey, son.”
My breath caught.
Dad looked down at his hands before continuing. “I’ve never been good at this stuff. Talking about feelings. You know that better than anybody.” He attempted a smile. “First thing I want to say is… I’m sorry.”
I gripped the edge of the desk.
“I spent so much time worrying about making sure you had a decent life that I forgot something pretty important. Life’s supposed to make you happy, too. Not just pay the bills.”
He paused. “When your mom died, I got scared. I thought if I worked hard enough, kept a roof over our heads, and made sure you learned to stand on your own two feet, I’d be doing my job.” He shook his head. “Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to be your dad.”
He swallowed. “A while back, I started watching these old recordings. Just feeling nostalgic, I guess. And I remembered how much I loved playing music. How happy it made me. Then I remembered how you used to look when you played.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“And I realized I’d spent years trying to protect you from the very thing that once made my own life worth living.” Dad wiped his eyes. “By then, we’d barely spoken in years. I wanted to tell you everything, but I knew how it would look. Like I was trying to buy your forgiveness with some expensive gift.”
He gestured around him. “So I made a decision. I asked Marcus to give you that box only after I was gone. Because I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything. Not forgiveness. Not gratitude. Not even a phone call.”
He drew a shaky breath. “When you get this place, it’ll be yours. You can make music, sell the equipment, turn it into something else. Whatever makes you happy. And I won’t be around to tell you you’re doing it wrong.”
For a moment, Dad just stared at the camera.
Then someone stepped into the frame.
Marcus. He placed a hand on Dad’s shoulder. “We’ve got his back, buddy.”
Two other men appeared beside him. I recognized them from the old photographs on the walls.
“Besides, once you’re gone, we’re going to need a new guitarist,” the bassist grinned.
“And a singer,” the drummer added. “Preferably one who can actually hit the high notes.”
Dad laughed, wiping his face. “You hear that, son? Apparently, they’re already planning to replace me.”
He looked at his old bandmates, then back at the camera. “Seriously, though. These idiots have been my friends for most of my life. They’ll help you if you want to give music a shot. And if you don’t, they’ll respect that too.”
The men stepped away, leaving Dad alone again.
“One last thing. Open the drawer under the mixing desk. There’s something in there to help you get started.” His voice trembled. “I wish I’d been a better father. I wish we’d had more time. But most of all, I wish I’d told you how proud I am of you.”
A tear rolled down his cheek. “I love you, son. I always have.”
He reached toward the camera. “Goodbye, buddy.”
The screen went black.
I sat there, unable to move. Then I bent forward and cried, harder than I had at the funeral.
Eventually, I reached beneath the mixing desk and pulled open the drawer.
Inside was a wooden box filled with neatly arranged envelopes. Each bore a month and year.
I opened one. Two hundred-dollar bills and a fifty.
Another envelope contained the same amount.
There were sixty altogether. Every $250 payment I’d made over the past five years.
Fifteen thousand dollars.
On top lay a note in Dad’s handwriting.
“You earned every dollar of this. Don’t waste it the way I wasted my chance.”
I held the paper against my chest.
For five years, I’d thought Dad was taking away my future, twenty-five hundred cents at a time. And all along, he’d been trying, in his own stubborn, terribly misguided way, to give it back to me.
I looked toward the dark computer screen.
“Thanks, Dad,” I whispered. “I just wish you’d told me while you were here.”
THE END
