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.
