Then Mom died when I was nine, and the music disappeared.
Dad put away his guitar and began working extra shifts, returning home exhausted and rarely speaking.
He kept the fridge stocked and signed my school paperwork, but hardly ever asked about my day.
“Can I get new shoes? These let water in,” I once asked.
“Put on another pair of socks,” he replied without looking up from dinner.
I had a father, but he rarely acted like one.
At twelve, I found old photographs in a drawer. Dad stood onstage holding a guitar, his shoulder-length hair falling around his face as a crowd cheered.
“Dad, you were in a band?”
“Long time ago.”
“What was it called? Did you make an album?”
He snatched the pictures away.
