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 had wiped the fingerprints from its body, but I left the silver star sticker where it was.

The microphone stood on its new mount, with the cable running neatly along the desk.

Marcus lifted a photograph from the shelf.

“Your father looks about twelve here.”

“He was twenty-six.”

“That explains the hair.”

“It doesn’t explain the trousers.”

Marcus put the photograph back, then pointed toward the empty wall across from the mixing desk.