My Dad Started Charging Me $250 a Month for My Room When I Turned 18 — Five Years Later, After His Funeral, His Best Friend Handed Me a Box

He was younger than I was now, with long hair and a guitar strapped over one shoulder.

Mom stood at the edge of the picture, holding a wooden spoon like a microphone.

She had passed away when I was nine, and most of what I knew about her came from photographs and the few stories Dad still told.

I picked up the picture.

“How come you never talk about these days?”

Dad continued sorting the mail.

“Which days?”

“The band.