The screen went dark.
Seconds later, Dad appeared.
Not the young musician from the footage, but the man we’d buried that morning.
He sat in the same studio, his face gaunt and most of his hair gone from cancer.
“Hey, son.”
My breath caught.
He looked at his hands before speaking again.
“I’ve never been good at this stuff. Talking about feelings. You know that better than anybody.”
He tried to smile.
“First thing I want to say is… I’m sorry.”
I gripped 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.
“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.”
