We’d barely spoken during his last week. Our final conversation concerned a leaking kitchen faucet.

Now we’d never speak again.

That evening, someone knocked.

It was Frank, Dad’s oldest friend, carrying a cardboard box sealed with tape.

“Your dad left this with me.”

He placed it on the kitchen table.

“He wanted you to open this only after he was gone.”

I laughed bitterly.

“What, did he save every dollar of rent I paid him?”

Frank remained serious.

“I wouldn’t make any guesses until you see what’s inside.”

I ripped away the tape and opened the box.

At first, I wondered if he’d brought the wrong one.

Inside lay an old leather vest covered with band patches, backstage passes, guitar picks, and pictures of Dad performing.

Then I found a photograph of Mom.

She stood beside Dad, smiling at him as he played. He looked happier than I’d seen him in fourteen years.