Then, five years after he started charging me rent, Dad died of cancer.
After his funeral, I stood in the hallway staring at his work boots, wishing we’d had one more conversation. Our last exchange had been about a leaking faucet.
That evening, Dad’s best friend, Frank, knocked on my door. He carried a taped cardboard box.
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“Your dad left this with me. He wanted you to open it after he was gone.”
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I laughed bitterly. “Did he save all the rent money I paid him?”
“Open it first,” Frank said quietly.
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Inside lay Dad’s old leather vest, guitar picks, backstage passes, and photographs of him performing with his band. One picture showed Mom smiling beside him as he played.
Memories flooded back, and I broke down crying.
Then I found a key with an unfamiliar address attached.
