PART 1

Before Mom passed away, our home was never quiet.

Dad played his acoustic guitar almost every evening, usually sitting on the living room sofa while Mom sang along from the kitchen stove.

“Come on, little guy,” Mom would laugh, grabbing a wooden spoon to use as a microphone while I giggled uncontrollably.

“Your turn, buddy,” Dad would say, patting the worn cushion right beside him.

I would scramble up with my plastic toy guitar, strumming wildly and pretending I was performing on a grand stage in front of thousands of screaming fans.

Then Mom died when I was nine, and the music stopped overnight.

Dad put his guitar inside its hard case and shoved it into the back of his closet.

He started taking grueling overtime shifts at the local lumber plant, coming home exhausted and barely speaking two sentences to me.

He kept basic food in the refrigerator and signed my school paperwork, but he never asked how my day went or how I was feeling.

“Can I get new sneakers, Dad?” I asked him one rainy evening.

“These ones have holes in the soles and let water in.”

“Put on another pair of thick socks,” he replied, keeping his eyes glued to his dinner plate.

I had a father under the same roof, but he rarely made an effort to actually be a dad.

When I was twelve years old, I accidentally discovered a stack of old glossy photographs hidden beneath tools in a garage drawer.

Dad was standing on a brightly lit stage with an electric guitar, his long hair falling down to his shoulders while an energetic crowd cheered in front of him.

“Dad, were you really in a rock band?” I asked, running into the kitchen with the pictures.

“That was a long time ago, kid,” he said, taking the photographs out of my hands immediately.