Dad put his guitar away. He started taking extra shifts, coming home exhausted and barely speaking to me.
He worked long shifts, kept food in the fridge, and signed my school forms. But he never seemed to care how my day had been.
« Can I get new shoes? These let water in, » I remember asking him once.
« Put on another pair of socks, » he said, without looking up from his dinner.
Dad put his guitar away.
I had a father, but he never made much effort to be a dad.
When I was twelve, I discovered some old photographs in a drawer. Dad was standing onstage with a guitar, his hair down to his shoulders, surrounded by a cheering crowd.
« Dad, you were in a band? »
« Long time ago. »
« That’s enough. »
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