to the camera.
“These guys will help you if you want to pursue music. And if you don’t, they’ll respect that too.”
He paused, struggling to speak.
“I wish I’d been a better father. I wish we’d had more time. Most of all, I wish I’d told you how proud I am of you.”
A tear rolled down his cheek.
“I love you, son. I always have. Goodbye, buddy.”
The screen went black.
I sat there crying, grieving the father I’d lost and the relationship we’d never repaired.
Then I remembered his final instruction.“Open the drawer beneath the mixing desk.”
Inside was a wooden box filled with sixty envelopes, each marked with a month and year.
I opened the first. Inside were three bills totaling $250.
Every envelope contained the same amount.
All the rent I’d paid over five years: $15,000.
On top lay a handwritten note.
“You
