“What was the band called?” I asked eagerly.

“Did you guys ever record a real album?”

“That is enough questions for tonight,” he snapped, closing the drawer firmly.

One evening during my mid-teens, I gathered the courage to ask him about his past again.

“Did you ever dream about becoming famous back then?” I asked softly.

“It was a dream once,” Dad said, staring silently into his black coffee mug.

“But my time has passed, and maybe you will inherit that passion someday.”

I never quite understood what he meant by that statement back then.

By the time I turned sixteen, I had taught myself to play guitar on a cheap instrument I bought at a yard sale, and I was already writing my own original lyrics.

I dreamed of studying audio engineering and recording my own album in a professional studio one day.

When I proudly handed Dad a glossy brochure for a regional music production program, he barely glanced at the paper.

“Music does not pay the utility bills,” he muttered, tossing the brochure onto the counter.

“You need to get a real job.”

“But you played music for years!” I argued, feeling a surge of frustration.