I tried the key.
The place looked almost abandoned, except for a clean welcome mat outside the entrance.
I tried the key.
It turned smoothly.
For a moment, I hesitated, wondering whether I was about to discover something about Dad I would rather not know.
Then I pushed the door open, reached for the light switch, and stepped inside.
It turned smoothly.
I stood in the doorway, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.
The walls were covered in dark acoustic panels. A large mixing desk occupied one corner, surrounded by speakers and computer monitors. Microphones stood beside guitar amplifiers, and a drum kit sat behind a glass partition.
It was a recording studio.
“Dad?”
I stepped inside and ran my fingers along the mixing desk. Everything was spotless, as though someone had been taking care of the place.
“Dad?” I whispered, almost expecting him to answer.
Then I noticed the photographs.
They covered an entire wall, mixed with old concert posters and newspaper clippings.
I leaned closer.
There was Dad, twenty years younger, standing under bright stage lights with his guitar raised above his head.
In another photograph, he was surrounded by a crowd reaching toward the stage.
I leaned closer to a newspaper clipping.
“Local Rock Band Packs Riverside Theater for Third Consecutive Weekend.”
I read the headline twice.
I moved toward the instruments.
My father had played to packed venues. People had bought tickets to see him perform. And he’d never told me.
“Why did you hide all this?” I murmured.
I moved toward the instruments.
There were electric guitars, a keyboard, and recording equipment I’d spent years watching reviews of online. I recognized an audio interface that had once cost more than three months of my wages.
My guitar.
Then something beside the keyboard made me stop.
A battered black guitar with a small silver star sticker near the neck.
My guitar.
I’d bought it secondhand at sixteen and played it almost every day until the arguments with Dad became unbearable. Eventually, it disappeared during one of my attempts to clear out my room. I’d assumed I’d accidentally thrown it away.
I picked it up.
Yet there it was, sitting on a stand with fresh strings.
I picked it up, turning it over in my hands.
Someone had even repaired the crack near the bridge.
My throat tightened.
For the first time, I wondered whether Dad had built this place for someone other than himself.
But why would he?
For me.
But why would he? And why did he grow to hate music so much?
I lowered the guitar carefully onto its stand.
On the table beside the mixing desk sat a small flash drive.
I clicked “Play.”
I picked it up and noticed a piece of tape wrapped around it. In Dad’s handwriting were two words:
“Our Band.”
A computer stood nearby. I plugged in the drive and found a single video file.
I clicked “Play.”
The screen flickered, then filled with grainy footage of four young men rehearsing in a cramped garage.
Everyone burst out laughing.
There was Dad, his hair falling past his shoulders, playing guitar with a cigarette tucked behind his ear.
“Come on, Frank!” he shouted at the drummer. “My grandma can keep a better beat than that!”
“Then invite her to join the band!”
Everyone burst out laughing.
I laughed until my eyes watered.
The video jumped between old performances, backstage footage, and ridiculous moments from rehearsals. At one point, Dad attempted to jump off a speaker and landed flat on his backside.
In another clip, the bassist accidentally knocked over an entire tray of drinks.
I laughed until my eyes watered.
I’d never seen Dad like this. He was loud, funny, full of energy. Nothing like the man who barely spoke to me over breakfast.
Dad appeared.
Then the footage suddenly stopped.
The screen went black.
A few seconds later, Dad appeared.
Not the young musician I’d just been watching, but the man I’d buried that morning.
Dad looked down at his hands.
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.”
