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.”
My breath caught.
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 shook his head.
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.
My eyes filled with tears.
“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.”
He swallowed.
“And I realized I’d spent years trying to protect you from the very thing that once made my own life worth living.”
I wanted to tell you everything.
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 Frank 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.”
“You can make music.”
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.
“We’ve got his back, buddy.”
Frank.
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.
The bassist grinned.
Dad laughed.
“Besides, once you’re gone, we’re going to need a new guitarist.”
“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.”
“One last thing.”
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.”
“I love you, son.”
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.
I sat there, unable to move.
“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.
I opened one.
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.
Fifteen thousand dollars.
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.
I held the paper against my chest.
“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.”