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.

Frank loved his friend but didn’t excuse him.

“He was not one thing,” he told me.

“Neither are you.”

After he left, I took out my earliest demos.

There were songs with awkward rhymes, timing errors, and terrible recordings, but also lines I still liked.

I realized I’d stopped listening to my own music because doing so reminded me of fighting with Dad.