“Can I get new shoes? These let water in,” I once asked.
“Put on another pair of socks,” he replied without looking up from dinner.
I had a father, but he rarely acted like one.
At twelve, I found old photographs in a drawer. Dad stood onstage holding a guitar, his shoulder-length hair falling around his face as a crowd cheered.
“Dad, you were in a band?”
“Long time ago.”
“What was it called? Did you make an album?”
He snatched the pictures away.
“That’s enough questions.”
But my curiosity remained.
One evening, I asked if he’d ever wanted to become famous.
He stared into his coffee.
“It was a dream once. But my time’s gone. Maybe you will inherit it.”
I didn’t understand.
By sixteen, I’d learned guitar on my own and begun writing songs. My dream was to study music production and eventually record an When I showed Dad a program I hoped to attend, he barely examined the brochure.
