I Paid My Father $250 in Rent Every Month for Five Years. After His Funeral, His Best Friend Gave Me a Key and a Box.

I heard the song as it had sounded in my bedroom through cheap headphones, with Dad telling me to turn it down on the other side of the door.

I stopped.

There was no one to interrupt now.

That should have felt like freedom.

Instead it felt like a large empty room where freedom had arrived far too late.

I laid the guitar back on its stand and went home before sunset.