“You hear that, son? Apparently, they’re already planning to replace me.”
He looked at his former bandmates, then back at the camera.
“Seriously, though. These idiots have been my friends for most of my life. They’ll help you if you want to give music a shot. And if you don’t, they’ll respect that too.”
The men moved away, leaving Dad alone.
“One last thing. Open the drawer under the mixing desk. There’s something in there to help you get started.”
His voice trembled.
“I wish I’d been a better father. I wish we’d had more time. But most of all, I wish I’d told you how proud I am of you.”
A tear slipped down his cheek.
“I love
you, son. I always have.”
He reached toward the camera.
“Goodbye, buddy.”
The screen went black.
I sat motionless before folding forward and crying harder than I had at his funeral.
Eventually, I opened the drawer beneath the mixing desk.
Inside sat a wooden box containing neatly arranged envelopes.
Each was marked with a month and year.
I opened one.
Two hundred-dollar bills and a fifty.
The next contained exactly the same amount.
There were sixty envelopes.
Every $250 rent payment I’d made over five years.
Fifteen thousand dollars.
On top was a handwritten note from Dad.
“You earned every dollar of this. Don’t waste it the way I wasted my chance.”
I pressed the paper against my chest.
