Someone had taken the time to restore it.
I ran my fingers over the strings, and a painful question rose in my mind.
Had Dad really hated my music, or had he been hiding something from me all along?
On the table beside the mixing desk lay a small flash drive. A piece of tape wrapped around it bore two words in Dad’s handwriting.
“Our Band.”
I plugged it into the nearby computer and opened the only video file.
The screen flickered, revealing four young men rehearsing in a cramped garage. Dad was among them, his hair falling past his shoulders, a guitar in his hands and a cigarette tucked behind his ear.
“Come on, Frank!” he shouted at the drummer. “My grandma can keep a better beat than that!”
“Then invite her to join the band!” someone yelled back.
Everyone burst out laughing.
I laughed, too, until tears blurred my vision.
