When I was 18,simo my father started charging me 250 dollars a month for my room. Five years later, after her funeral, her best friend handed me a box and whispered, “Your father wanted you to open it only after her death…”

It was a recording studio.

A lovely recording studio, fully equipped.

There were microphones, guitars, speakers, a mixer and soundproof walls.

And on one corner was my old guitar.

The same guitar I thought I lost years ago.

He had his broken bridge repaired.

The strings were brand new.

On the desk was a USB stick with a label that said:

FOR MY SON.

With my hands shaking, I connected her to the computer.

A video appeared.

And all of a sudden, my father was looking at me straight from the screen.

He was sitting in that same studio, thinner than he remembered, his eyes tired.

“Hi, champion,” he began.

I covered my mouth with my hand.

She hasn’t called me that since I was little.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to try.

She looked down.

“After your mother died, I thought being a good father meant working hard, paying bills and teaching you how to survive.