For five years, my father charged me rent while I struggled financially, and I came to resent him. After his funeral, his best friend handed me a box that changed everything I thought I knew.
Before Mom passed away, our home was always filled with music.
Dad played guitar most evenings on the living room couch while Mom sang from the kitchen.
“Come on, buddy.”
Sometimes she’d use a wooden spoon as a microphone, making me laugh until I forgot the lyrics.
“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 before thousands.
Then Mom died when I was nine, and the music disappeared.
Dad put away his guitar and began working extra shifts, returning home exhausted and rarely speaking.
He kept the fridge stocked and signed my school paperwork, but hardly ever asked
about my day.
