“I can’t stand watching you waste your life like I did.”
The argument ended when I slammed my bedroom door hard enough to knock a picture off the wall.
Eventually, I recorded less often. My guitar stayed in its case most days, though I still played whenever Dad was away.
His best friend, Frank, visited now and then. Sometimes they left carrying tools or old equipment. I assumed they were working in Frank’s garage.
By twenty-three, Dad and I barely exchanged words.
We passed each other in the hallway like strangers, and I left $250 on the kitchen table every month.
Sometimes I’d notice him watching me, but he never spoke.
Five years after he began collecting rent, Dad died of cancer.
I’d often imagined the relief of having the house to myself. Yet after his funeral, I stood in the hallway staring at his work boots beside the door, unable to move them.
