I already worked part-time, yet I had to take more shifts stocking grocery shelves. After rent, food, gas, and other expenses, almost nothing remained.
Whenever I saved a little, another expense appeared. My car broke down, my hours were reduced, or my work shoes wore out.
Meanwhile, Dad occasionally bought beer or new fishing equipment.
“Must be nice having money for hobbies,” I muttered one day.
He overheard me.
“Work hard enough, and you will too.”
At nineteen, I finally saved enough for a used microphone and audio interface. I recorded songs in my bedroom, using blankets on the walls to improve the acoustics.
One night, Dad appeared at my door.
“Turn that racket down. I’ve got work tomorrow.”
“I’m almost finished.”
“I said turn it down.”
I removed my headphones.
“You couldn’t stand seeing me do something I actually love, could you?”
