“That’s enough questions.”

But my curiosity remained.

One evening, I asked if he’d ever wanted to become famous.

He stared into his coffee.

“It was a dream once. But my time’s gone. Maybe you will inherit it.”

I didn’t understand.

By sixteen, I’d learned guitar on my own and begun writing songs. My dream was to study music production and eventually record an album.

When I showed Dad a program I hoped to attend, he barely examined the brochure.

“Music doesn’t pay the bills. Get a real job.”