Then the video abruptly stopped.

The screen went dark.

Seconds later, Dad appeared.

Not the young musician from the footage, but the man we’d buried that morning.

He sat in the same studio, his face gaunt and most of his hair gone from cancer.

“Hey, son.”

My breath caught.

He looked at his hands before speaking again.

“I’ve never been good at this stuff. Talking about feelings. You know that better than anybody.”

He tried to smile.

“First thing I want to say is… I’m sorry.”

I gripped the desk.

“I spent so much time worrying about making sure you had a decent life that I forgot something pretty important. Life’s supposed to make you happy, too. Not just pay the bills.”

He shook his head.

“When your mom died, I got scared. I thought if I worked hard enough, kept a roof over our heads, and made sure you learned to stand on your own two feet, I’d be doing my job.”

He paused.

“Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to be your dad.”

He swallowed, and my eyes filled with tears.

“A while back, I started watching these old recordings. Just feeling nostalgic, I guess. And I remembered how much I loved playing music. How happy it made me. Then I remembered how you used to look when you played.”

“And I realized I’d spent years trying to protect you from the very thing that once made my own life worth living.”

Dad wiped his eyes.

“By then, we’d barely spoken in years. I wanted to tell you everything, but I knew how it would look. Like I was trying to buy your forgiveness with some expensive gift.”

He gestured around the studio.

“So I made a decision. I asked Frank to give you that box only after I was gone. Because I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything. Not forgiveness. Not gratitude. Not even a phone call.”

He drew an unsteady breath.

“When you get this place, it’ll be yours. You can make music, sell the equipment, turn it into something else. Whatever makes you happy. And I won’t be around to tell you you’re doing it wrong.”

For a moment, he stared into the camera.

Then someone entered the frame.

Frank.

He rested a hand on Dad’s shoulder.

“We’ve got his back, buddy.”

Two more men joined him. I recognized them from the pictures on the studio walls.

The bassist grinned.

“Besides, once you’re gone, we’re going to need a new guitarist.”

“And a singer,” the drummer added. “Preferably one who can actually hit the high notes.”

Dad laughed, wiping his face.

“You hear that, son? Apparently, they’re already planning to replace me.”

He looked at his former bandmates, then back at the camera.

“Seriously, though. These idiots have been my friends for most of my life. They’ll help you if you want to give music a shot. And if you don’t, they’ll respect that too.”

The men moved away, leaving Dad alone.

“One last thing. Open the drawer under the mixing desk. There’s something in there to help you get started.”

His voice trembled.

“I wish I’d been a better father. I wish we’d had more time. But most of all, I wish I’d told you how proud I am of you.”

A tear slipped down his cheek.

“I love you, son. I always have.”

He reached toward the camera.

“Goodbye, buddy.”

The screen went black.

I sat motionless before folding forward and crying harder than I had at his funeral.

Eventually, I opened the drawer beneath the mixing desk.

Inside sat a wooden box containing neatly arranged envelopes.

Each was marked with a month and year.

I opened one.

Two hundred-dollar bills and a fifty.

The next contained exactly the same amount.

There were sixty envelopes.

Every $250 rent payment I’d made over five years.

Fifteen thousand dollars.

On top was a handwritten note from Dad.

“You earned every dollar of this. Don’t waste it the way I wasted my chance.”

I pressed the paper against my chest.

For five years, I’d believed Dad was taking away my future, $250 at a time.

All along, in his stubborn and deeply misguided way, he’d been trying to give it back.

I looked toward the dark computer screen.

“Thanks, Dad,” I whispered. “I just wish you’d told me while you were here.”