For five years, my father charged me rent while I struggled financially. I resented him for it. But after his funeral, his best friend handed me a box that changed everything I thought I knew about my dad.
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Before Mom died, our home was always filled with music. Dad played guitar on the couch while Mom sang from the kitchen, sometimes using a wooden spoon as a microphone.
“Come on, buddy,” Dad would say, patting the seat beside him. “Your turn.”
I’d climb onto the couch with my toy guitar, pretending to perform for thousands.
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Then Mom died when I was nine, and the music stopped.
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Dad put away his guitar and buried himself in work. He kept food in the fridge and signed my school forms, but rarely asked about my life.
When I needed new shoes, he told me to wear extra socks. When I asked about his old band, he snapped, “That’s enough questions.”
