PART 3
For several minutes, I stayed in that chair without moving.
The computer screen had gone black, but Dad’s face was still there in my mind.
I love you, son. I always have.
Those were words I had spent twenty-three years waiting to hear.
And he had waited until he was gone to say them.
I looked down at the wooden box sitting on the floor beside me.
Sixty envelopes.
Sixty months.
Every $250 I had handed him.
Fifteen thousand dollars.
I picked up another envelope and turned it over in my hands.
My name was written on the front.
Not printed.
Not typed.
Written in Dad’s handwriting.
For my son.
I opened it carefully.
Inside was another note.
Only three sentences.
“You probably hate me right now.
I understand.
I hope someday you’ll understand me too.”
I closed my eyes.
“Why couldn’t you just talk to me?”
The studio gave me no answer.
Only the faint hum of the equipment.
I stood and walked back toward the mixing desk.
Dad’s final instruction kept repeating in my head.
There’s something in there to help you get started.
I had already found the money.
But somehow, I knew that wasn’t what he meant.
I pulled open the drawer again.
It was empty now.
Or so I thought.
I ran my fingers along the bottom.
Then I felt something.
A tiny metal latch.
I pressed it.
The bottom panel popped upward.
I froze.
There was a hidden compartment beneath the drawer.
Inside was a thick black notebook.
I pulled it out.
The cover was worn and scratched.
On the front, Dad had written one word.
SONGBOOK.
My heart started pounding.
I opened it.
The first pages contained handwritten lyrics.
Dozens of them.
Some were dated twenty-five years earlier.
Some were written only months ago.
I turned the pages slowly.
Then I saw something that made my breath stop.
A song title.
“For My Little Buddy.”
The date beside it was fourteen years ago.
The year Mom died.
I stared at the page.
Dad had written an entire song the year she died.
I began reading.
It wasn’t about fame.
It wasn’t about music.
It was about a little boy who had lost his mother and a father who was terrified he wouldn’t know how to raise him.
My vision blurred.
I wiped my eyes and kept reading.
Halfway down the page, Dad had written:
“If I can’t give him the world, I’ll give him the strength to build one.”
I sat down again.
For years, I had believed Dad simply stopped caring after Mom died.
But this notebook told a different story.
A painful story.
A story about a man who had no idea how to express love without turning it into responsibility.
I kept turning pages.
There were songs about me.
My first day of school.
My twelfth birthday.
The night I learned my first guitar chord.
The day I told him I wanted to study music.
Even the night we had our worst argument.
I found a page dated the night I slammed my bedroom door.
At the top, Dad had written:
“I think I just pushed my son farther away.”
Underneath it were only six words.
“I don’t know how to fix this.”
I covered my mouth.
All those years…
I thought he didn’t care.
He had been writing about me.
Maybe even thinking about me more than I ever realized.
Then I noticed something strange.
The pages became more recent.
One entry was dated three months before his death.
Another two months before.
Then one from only six weeks earlier.
I turned the page.
And stopped.
There was no song.
Instead, Dad had written a letter.
“If you’re reading this, I’ve run out of time.”
My hands began shaking.
I read on.
He explained that he had known for some time that his cancer had returned.
He had kept the diagnosis from me.
Not because he didn’t trust me.
Because he knew exactly how I would react.
He knew I would quit work.
He knew I would spend every waking hour taking care of him.
And he didn’t want my life to stop because his was ending.
That sentence hurt more than anything.
Because I realized something.
Even when Dad was making decisions I hated…
He had been making them around me.
For me.
But there was more.
He wrote that after discovering his illness, he had contacted Frank.
Together, they had started restoring the old recording studio.
The equipment.
The guitars.
The computers.
The microphones.
Everything.
Dad had been secretly preparing the place for me.
Then I reached the final page.
It contained a name.
Daniel Mercer.
I didn’t recognize it.
Underneath it was an address.
And beneath that:
“Ask him about the song.”
I stared at the page.
Who was Daniel Mercer?
And what song?
I immediately thought of the old band.
Maybe he had been one of them.
I grabbed my phone and called Frank.
He answered on the fourth ring.
“Hey, buddy.”
His voice sounded tired.
“Frank, I need to ask you something.”
There was a pause.
“About your dad?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“What did you find?”
“A notebook.”
Frank exhaled.
“So you found that too.”
I stood completely still.
“Too?”
He didn’t answer.
“Frank, who is Daniel Mercer?”
Silence.
Long enough that I knew the name meant something.
Finally, he said:
“Where are you?”
“The studio.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Frank—”
“Don’t open anything else.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“I’ll explain when I get there.”
The call ended.
I stared at my phone.
For the first time since Dad died, I felt something other than grief.
I felt fear.
Not because I believed Dad had done something terrible.
Because I realized there were still things about him I didn’t know.
Things Frank had known.
Things Dad had deliberately hidden.
And apparently, things that had nothing to do with the money.
Twenty-five minutes later, headlights appeared outside the studio.
Frank walked through the door carrying a small paper bag.
He looked at me.
Then at the notebook in my hand.
His expression changed.
“You found Daniel’s name.”
I nodded.
“Who is he?”
Frank put the bag down.
“Your father’s old producer.”
“Producer?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were the drummer.”
“I was.”
He smiled sadly.
“Your father and I started that band together. Daniel was the guy who helped us get our first real recording contract.”
I stared at him.
“What happened?”
Frank pulled out a chair.
“Sit down.”
I sat.
He remained standing.
“Your father had a chance to make it big.”
“I know.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“You don’t know.”
He walked toward the wall of photographs.
He pointed to an old picture of Dad standing beside three other musicians.
“You’ve seen these guys.”
I nodded.
“That band wasn’t just popular around here. We were offered a national tour.”
My eyes widened.
“What?”
“Twenty-three cities.”
Frank smiled faintly.
“Major venues. Record deal. Everything.”
“Then why didn’t he go?”
Frank looked at me.
“Because your mother was pregnant with you.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“Your father was supposed to leave for the tour two weeks after you were born.”
I stared at the photograph.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does when you know your father.”
Frank’s voice softened.
“He had two choices. Chase the dream he’d spent years building, or stay home with your mother and newborn son.”
“He chose us.”
“He chose you.”
I looked away.
For years, I’d thought Dad had given up music because he wasn’t successful.
The truth was more complicated.
“He never told me.”
“He didn’t want you to feel like you owed him for giving up his dream.”
My eyes burned.
“Then why did he spend my entire childhood telling me music was a waste of time?”
Frank didn’t answer immediately.
Then he said:
“Because he was scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“That you would make the same sacrifice.”
I looked at him.
Frank continued.
“Your father loved music. But he also knew how quickly a dream can consume everything else. When he saw you falling in love with it, he panicked.”
I remembered Dad standing in my bedroom doorway.
Music doesn’t pay the bills.
At the time, I thought he was insulting me.
Now I wondered if he had been trying, in his broken way, to protect me from becoming him.
Frank walked back to the table.
“There’s something else you need to know.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“Your father didn’t build this studio alone.”
“I figured.”
“He had help.”
“From you?”
Frank shook his head.
“From Daniel.”
I felt my stomach tighten again.
“Why?”
Frank looked toward the notebook.
“Because Daniel believed your father had unfinished business.”
“What unfinished business?”
“The song.”
I glanced down at the notebook.
“The one he told me to ask Daniel about?”
“Yes.”
“What song is it?”
Frank looked at me for several seconds.
Then he reached into his coat pocket.
He pulled out a small envelope.
He placed it on the table.
My name was written on it.
I stared.
“Where did you get that?”
“Your father gave it to me six weeks before he died.”
I didn’t touch it.
“What does it say?”
“You need to open it.”
I picked it up.
The envelope was sealed.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Dad’s handwriting.
I began reading.
“Son,
There is one thing I never told you about your mother.
She knew about the band.
She knew about the tour.
And she was the one who told me to go.”
I stopped.
I read the sentence again.
Then again.
Frank watched me carefully.
“What does that mean?”
He sat across from me.
“Your mother didn’t want him to give up music.”
“Then why did he stay?”
Frank’s eyes became wet.
“Because something happened.”
I lowered the paper.
“What happened?”
Frank looked toward the studio door.
Then back at me.
“Your mother was sick before you were born.”
My chest tightened.
“What kind of sick?”
“Her doctors weren’t sure how much time she had.”
I couldn’t speak.
Frank continued quietly.
“Your father found out just before the tour was supposed to begin.”
I stared at him.
“He stayed.”
“He stayed.”
“Because she was dying?”
Frank nodded.
“And because she wanted him to.”
I looked down at the letter.
There was more writing on the back.
I turned it over.
The final line read:
“Your mother made me promise that if I ever got another chance at music, I would take it.”
I felt tears running down my face.
But then I noticed something.
A second sentence.
Written beneath it.
“I kept that promise too late.”
I looked at Frank.
“What does that mean?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he stood and walked toward the computer.
He turned it on.
A password screen appeared.
He typed something.
The computer unlocked.
A folder appeared on the desktop.
FINAL MASTER — DO NOT DELETE
I stared at it.
“What is that?”
Frank didn’t respond.
He clicked the folder.
Inside was one audio file.
The date was three weeks before Dad died.
Frank put on the headphones.
Then he handed them to me.
“Listen.”
I pressed play.
At first, there was silence.
Then a guitar chord.
Soft.
Unsteady.
Then Dad’s voice.
Older.
Weaker.
But unmistakable.
He began singing.
I couldn’t understand all the words at first.
Then I heard my name.
My entire body went cold.
This wasn’t an old song.
Dad had written it recently.
For me.
I listened until the recording ended.
There was no applause.
No background instruments.
Just Dad and his guitar.
At the end, he spoke instead of singing.
“Buddy, if you’re hearing this, I didn’t get enough time.”
I closed my eyes.
“But maybe time was never the point.”
His voice cracked.
“Maybe what mattered was what we did with the time we had.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“I spent too many years trying to make you strong.”
A pause.
“I forgot you also needed me to be kind.”
I pressed my hand over my mouth.
“I know I hurt you.”
Another pause.
“And I know saying sorry now doesn’t fix it.”
His breathing became shaky.
“But if there’s one thing I want you to understand…”
The recording became quiet.
Then Dad said:
“You were never the rent.”
My eyes opened.
“You were never the burden.”
His voice broke.
“You were the reason.”
The recording ended.
I pulled off the headphones.
For a moment, neither Frank nor I spoke.
Then Frank whispered:
“He recorded that three days before he went into the hospital.”
I stared at the computer.
“Why didn’t he give it to me?”
“He planned to.”
“What happened?”
“He got too sick.”
I looked around the studio.
At the photographs.
The guitars.
The mixing desk.
The old leather vest.
The wooden box.
The sixty envelopes.
Everything suddenly felt different.
This wasn’t a studio Dad had left behind.
It was a conversation he had been trying to have with me for years.
And now I finally understood.
But then Frank said something that changed everything.
“There is one more thing.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
He reached into the paper bag he’d brought.
He pulled out a thick folder.
He placed it on the table.
“This is the reason your father wanted you to have the studio.”
I opened it.
Inside were legal documents.
Property papers.
Bank statements.
Business records.
And a contract.
I scanned the first page.
My heart began racing.
“Frank…”
“What?”
“This isn’t just a recording studio.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
I looked at the numbers.
Then at him.
“How much is this place worth?”
Frank didn’t answer.
I turned the page.
And saw the number.
My hands went numb.
The studio was worth far more than I had imagined.
But that wasn’t the part that shocked me.
At the bottom of the document was another name.
Not my father’s.
Not Frank’s.
Not Daniel’s.
My mother’s.
I looked up slowly.
“Why is Mom’s name on the ownership documents?”
Frank’s face went pale.
He sat down.
“Because, son…”
He swallowed.
“Your mother never gave up her share.”
I stared at him.
“What share?”
Frank looked toward the old photograph of my parents.
Then he whispered:
“Your father wasn’t the only one who had a secret.”
And suddenly, the studio no longer felt like a gift.
It felt like the beginning of a mystery my parents had taken to their graves.
A mystery that had apparently been waiting for me to find it.
And somewhere inside those documents was the answer to one question I had never thought to ask:
What really happened to my mother’s dream?
