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

I opened the recording on the computer.

Frank’s voice came through the speakers, quieter than it had been earlier.

“If you want to sell the equipment, sell it.

If you want to change the room, change it.

You do not owe me a single hour in here, Daniel.

You do not owe me a song.”

The recording ended with a small click.

I kept my hand on the mouse.