At nineteen, I finally scraped together enough for a used microphone and audio interface. I spent my evenings recording songs in my bedroom, hanging blankets on the walls to improve the sound.
“I’m almost finished.”
One night, Dad appeared in my doorway.
“Turn that racket down. I’ve got work tomorrow.”
“I’m almost finished.”
“I said turn it down.”
I pulled off my headphones.
“You couldn’t stand seeing me do something I actually love, could you?”
“I said turn it down.”
“I can’t stand watching you waste your life like I did.”
That argument ended with me slamming my bedroom door so hard a picture fell off the wall.
Eventually, I stopped recording regularly. My guitar spent more time in its case, though I still played when Dad wasn’t home.
His best friend, Frank, visited occasionally. Sometimes they left together carrying tools or old equipment. I assumed they were fixing something in Frank’s garage.
