Then the screen went dark.
A new recording began.
Dad appeared, thin and exhausted from cancer treatment.
“Hey, son.”
I stopped breathing.
He looked down at his hands.
“I’m not very good at talking about feelings. You know that.”
His voice trembled.
“First thing I want to say is I’m sorry.”
He explained that after Mom died, he’d become terrified of failing me.
He believed working hard, paying bills, and teaching me responsibility were the only ways to be a good father.
“Somewhere along the way,” he whispered, “I forgot how to actually be your dad.”
Tears filled my eyes.
Then he gestured around the studio.
“I remembered how much I loved music. And I remembered how happy you looked when you played.”
He paused.
“I spent years trying to protect you from the very thing that once made my life worth living.”
He told me he’d built the studio with help from his old bandmates.
