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.”
