"I'm almost finished."
One night, Dad appeared in my doorway.
"Turn that racket down. I've got work tomorrow."
"I'm almost finished."
"I said turn it down."
I pulled off my headphones.
"You couldn't stand seeing me do something I actually love, could you?"
"I said turn it down."
"I can't stand watching you waste your life like I did."
That argument ended with me slamming my bedroom door so hard a picture fell off the wall.
Eventually, I stopped recording regularly. My guitar spent more time in its case, though I still played when Dad wasn't home.
His best friend, Frank, visited occasionally. Sometimes they left together carrying tools or old equipment. I assumed they were fixing something in Frank's garage.
He never said anything.
By twenty-three, Dad and I barely spoke.
We passed each other in the hallway like strangers, and every month, I left $250 on the kitchen table.
