He reached past me for the dish towel.

“You could buy the shoes this week if you stopped spending money on music equipment.”

The words landed harder because he said them without raising his voice.

“I bought one used microphone last spring.”

“And you still have it.”

“It’s barely working.”

“Then wait until you can afford another.”

I wanted to tell him about the song I’d been trying to finish, the one I had stopped opening on my computer because every unfinished line seemed to prove something I was afraid was true.