I had a father, but he never made much effort to be a dad. I don’t say that bitterly anymore, not the way I used to say it in my head for years. But it was true. He fed me. He kept a roof over my head. He showed up to the handful of school events that absolutely required a parent’s signature in person. What he didn’t do was ask me anything. Not how I felt. Not what I was thinking. Not whether I missed her the way he must have missed her, though he never once said so out loud.
When I was twelve, I discovered some old photographs in a drawer while looking for a stapler. Dad was standing onstage with a guitar, his hair down to his shoulders, surrounded by a cheering crowd, younger than I’d ever seen him, younger than I could really picture him being.
“Dad, you were in a band?”
“Long time ago.”
“What was it called? Did you make an album?”
