He worked long shifts, kept food in the fridge, and signed my school forms. But he never seemed to care how my day had been.
"Can I get new shoes? These let water in," I remember asking him once.
"Put on another pair of socks," he said, without looking up from his dinner.
Dad put his guitar away.
I had a father, but he never made much effort to be a dad.
When I was twelve, I discovered some old photographs in a drawer. Dad was standing onstage with a guitar, his hair down to his shoulders, surrounded by a cheering crowd.
"Dad, you were in a band?"
"Long time ago."
"That's enough."
"What was it called? Did you make an album?"
He took the photographs from my hands.
"That's enough questions."
But I couldn't stop wondering.
One evening, I asked whether he'd ever dreamed of becoming famous.
