“And I realized I’d spent years trying to protect you from the very thing that once made my own life worth living.”
Dad wiped his eyes.
“By then, we’d barely spoken in years. I wanted to tell you everything, but I knew how it would look. Like I was trying to buy your forgiveness with some expensive gift.”
He gestured around the studio.
“So I made a decision. I asked Frank to give you that box only after I was gone. Because I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything. Not forgiveness. Not gratitude. Not even a phone call.”
He drew an unsteady breath.
“When you get this place, it’ll be yours. You can make music, sell the equipment, turn it into something else. Whatever makes you happy. And I won’t be around to tell you you’re doing it wrong.”
