“Then consider this your first lesson in responsibility.”
I waited for a smile, but he simply resumed drinking coffee.
I already worked part-time, yet I had to take more shifts stocking grocery shelves. After rent, food, gas, and other expenses, almost nothing remained.
Whenever I saved a little, another expense appeared. My car broke down, my hours were reduced, or my work shoes wore out.
Meanwhile, Dad occasionally bought beer or new fishing equipment.
“Must be nice having money for hobbies,” I muttered one day.
He overheard me.
“Work hard enough, and you will too.”
At nineteen, I finally saved enough for a used microphone and audio interface. I recorded songs in my bedroom, using blankets on the walls to improve the acoustics.
One night, Dad appeared at my door.
“Turn that racket down. I’ve got work tomorrow.”
“I’m almost finished.”
“I said turn it down.”
I removed my headphones.
“You couldn’t stand seeing me do something I actually love, could you?”
“I can’t stand watching you waste your life like I did.”
The argument ended when I slammed my bedroom door hard enough to knock a picture off the wall.
Eventually, I recorded less often. My guitar stayed in its case most days, though I still played whenever Dad was away.
His best friend, Frank, visited now and then. Sometimes they left carrying tools or old equipment. I assumed they were working in Frank’s garage.
By twenty-three, Dad and I barely exchanged words.
We passed each other in the hallway like strangers, and I left $250 on the kitchen table every month.
Sometimes I’d notice him watching me, but he never spoke.
Five years after he began collecting rent, Dad died of cancer.
I’d often imagined the relief of having the house to myself. Yet after his funeral, I stood in the hallway staring at his work boots beside the door, unable to move them.
We’d barely spoken during his last week. Our final conversation concerned a leaking kitchen faucet.
Now we’d never speak again.
That evening, someone knocked.
It was Frank, Dad’s oldest friend, carrying a cardboard box sealed with tape.
“Your dad left this with me.”
He placed it on the kitchen table.
“He wanted you to open this only after he was gone.”
I laughed bitterly.
“What, did he save every dollar of rent I paid him?”
Frank remained serious.
“I wouldn’t make any guesses until you see what’s inside.”
I ripped away the tape and opened the box.
At first, I wondered if he’d brought the wrong one.
Inside lay an old leather vest covered with band patches, backstage passes, guitar picks, and pictures of Dad performing.
Then I found a photograph of Mom.
She stood beside Dad, smiling at him as he played. He looked happier than I’d seen him in fourteen years.
Memories of those musical evenings in our living room flooded back.
I collapsed into Dad’s chair, crying so hard that Frank had to support me.
He stayed until I’d calmed down, then quietly left.
While putting the pictures away, I noticed something metallic beneath the vest.
It was a key with a small tag bearing an unfamiliar address.
I turned it over, searching for an explanation.
Nothing.
