“It was a dream once.”
Dad stared at his coffee.
“It was a dream once. But my time’s gone. Maybe you will inherit it.”
I never understood what he meant.
By sixteen, I’d taught myself guitar and started writing songs. I wanted to study music production and record my own album someday.
“Get a real job.”
When I showed Dad a program I wanted to apply for, he barely glanced at the brochure.
“Music doesn’t pay the bills. Get a real job.”
“But you played music!”
“And look where it got me.”
He walked away.
Later that night, I caught him standing beside his old guitar, staring at it.
He turned off the light.
For a moment, I thought he might pick it up.
Instead, he turned off the light and went to bed.
On my eighteenth birthday, Dad slid a scrap of paper across the kitchen table while I was eating breakfast.
