“But you played music!”
“And look where it got me.”
He walked away.
That night, I noticed him standing near his old guitar. For a moment, I expected him to pick it up.
Instead, he switched off the light and went to bed.
On my eighteenth birthday, Dad pushed a scrap of paper across the breakfast table.
“Pay me $250 for your room. On the first of every month.”
I stared in disbelief.
“You’re an adult now.”
“You’re charging your own son rent?”
“It’s my birthday, Dad.”
“Then consider this your first lesson in responsibility.”
