Meanwhile, Dad occasionally bought beer or new fishing equipment.
“Must be nice having money for hobbies,” I muttered one day.
He overheard me.
“Work hard enough, and you will too.”
At nineteen, I finally saved enough for a used microphone and audio interface. I recorded songs in my bedroom, using blankets on the walls to improve the acoustics.
One night, Dad appeared at my door.
“Turn that racket down. I’ve got work tomorrow.”
“I’m almost finished.”
“I said turn it down.”
I removed my headphones.
“You couldn’t stand seeing me do something I actually love, could you?”
“I can’t stand watching you waste your life like I did.”
The argument ended when I slammed my bedroom door hard enough to knock a picture off the wall.
Eventually, I recorded less often. My guitar stayed in its case most days, though I still played whenever Dad was away.
