In one scene, Dad tried to jump off a speaker but landed flat on his backside.
In another, the bassist knocked over a tray of drinks.
I laughed until tears filled my eyes.
I had never known this side of Dad. He was full of energy, incredibly funny, and never afraid to speak his mind. He was nothing like the quiet man I had breakfast with every morning.
Then the video suddenly cut off.
The screen went black.
A few seconds later, Dad appeared.
Not the young musician from the old footage, but the man we had buried that morning.
He was sitting in this very studio. His face was gaunt, and he had lost most of his hair because of the cancer.
“Hello, son.”
My breath caught in my throat.
He looked down at his hands before continuing.
“I’ve never been particularly good at this sort of thing. Talking about feelings. You know that better than anyone.”
He tried to smile.
“The first thing I want to tell you is… I’m sorry.”
I gripped the edge of the table.
“I spent so much time worrying about how to give you a decent life that I forgot something pretty important. Life is supposed to make you happy, too. It’s not just about paying bills.”
He shook his head.
“When your mother died, I became afraid. I thought that if I just worked hard enough, made sure we had a roof over our heads, and taught you to stand on your own two feet, I would have done my job.”
He paused.
“Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to be a real father.”
He swallowed, and my eyes filled with tears.
“A while ago, I started watching these old recordings. I was probably just feeling nostalgic. And I remembered how much I loved making music. How happy it made me. Then I remembered what you used to look like when you played.”
“And that’s when I realized that for years, I’d been trying to protect you from the very thing that had once made my own life worth living.”
Dad wiped his eyes.
“By that point, we’d barely spoken to each other for years. I wanted to tell you everything, but I knew how it would look. Like I was trying to buy your forgiveness with an expensive gift.”
He gestured toward the studio around him.
“So I made a decision. I asked Franz to give you this box only after I was gone. Because I don’t want you to feel that you owe me anything. Not forgiveness. Not gratitude. Not even a phone call.”
He drew a shaky breath.
“When you inherit this place, it will belong to you. You can make music, sell the equipment, or turn it into something completely different. Whatever makes you happy. And I won’t be around anymore to tell you that you’re doing it wrong.”
For a moment, he stared into the camera.
Then someone stepped into the frame.
Franz.
He placed a hand on Dad’s shoulder.
“We’re behind him, my friend.”
Two more men joined them. I recognized them from the photographs on the studio walls.
The bassist grinned.
“Besides, we’re going to need a new guitarist when you’re gone.”
“And a singer,” the drummer added. “Preferably one who can actually hit the high notes.”
Dad laughed and wiped his face.
“Do you hear that, son? Apparently, they’re already planning to replace me.”
He looked at his former bandmates, then turned back to the camera.
“But seriously. 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 decide you don’t want to, they’ll respect that, too.”
The men stepped away, leaving Dad alone again.
“One last thing. Open the drawer beneath the mixing console. There’s something in there that should 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 rolled down his cheek.
“I love you, son. I always have.”
He reached toward the camera.
“Goodbye, my boy.”
The screen went black.
I sat motionless for a moment before leaning forward and crying harder than I had at his funeral.
Eventually, I opened the drawer beneath the mixing console.
Inside was a wooden box containing neatly organized envelopes.
Each one was labeled with a month and a year.
I opened one.
Two €100 bills and one €50 bill.
The next contained exactly the same amount.
There were sixty envelopes.
Every single rent payment of €250 I’d made over five years.
Fifteen thousand euros.
On top lay a handwritten note from Dad.
“Every single euro here was earned by you. Don’t waste this money the way I wasted my chance.”
I pressed the paper against my chest.
For five years, I’d believed Dad was taking my future away from me, €250 at a time.
All along, in his stubborn and completely misguided way, he’d been trying to give it back to me.
I looked at the dark computer screen.
“Thank you, Dad,” I whispered. “I just wish you’d told me while you were still here.”
