They looked so happy.
I began crying.
Beneath the photographs was a small key attached to an unfamiliar address.
That evening, I drove to the edge of town.
The key opened a plain building near an old warehouse.
When I stepped inside, I froze.
Acoustic panels covered the walls.
There were microphones, speakers, a mixing desk, and a drum kit behind glass.
It was a fully equipped recording studio.
On the wall hung photographs of Dad performing with his old band.
Then I spotted something that made my throat tighten.
My childhood guitar.
I’d thought it was lost years earlier.
Now it stood beside the mixing desk, repaired and fitted with new strings.
Nearby was a flash drive labeled Our Band.
I plugged it into the computer.
The screen filled with old footage of Dad and his friends playing music, laughing, and joking during rehearsals.
For the first time in fourteen years, I saw the man I’d known before Mom died.
