In June, Sarah called to tell me my father had suffered a heart attack. My chest tightened instantly. Minor, she said quickly. He’s stable. But he’s asking for you. I drove to Vanderbilt Medical Center, room 312, the first time I’d seen Richard in four months. He looked pale and thinner than I remembered, hooked to monitors, older somehow. When he saw me, tears formed in his eyes. You came, he said. You’re my dad, I told him. He nodded but couldn’t speak for a moment. I was a terrible father, he finally said. I took Clare’s side without ever really listening. Yeah, I said. Silence followed, not comfortable exactly, but honest. I’m sorry, he said. I know, I told him. Can we fix this, he asked. We can try, I said. Slowly. He understood what slowly meant. Years, not weeks. I stayed thirty minutes and left. No promises made. Just presence.
My own life kept moving forward while theirs continued to unravel. I released my second EP, called Displaced, a collection of instrumental guitar tracks that pulled in a hundred eighty thousand streams in the first month alone. Nashville Scene featured me as a musician to watch. Session work doubled. I started teaching guitar workshops and found more fulfillment in it than I’d expected. I bought a 1967 Martin D-18 for ninety eight hundred dollars, not a replacement for the Gibson but a new chapter entirely. I met Emma at a showcase, a music journalist, thirty two, smart and kind, someone who understood boundaries without treating them as a personal threat. Dating her became serious in the calmest, healthiest way I’d ever experienced. Dr. Patel eventually graduated me from therapy altogether. You’ve processed the trauma, she told me. You know how to handle it now. I built a tight circle of five musician friends, chosen family in every sense, and started volunteering at a youth music program teaching kids guitar on weekends.
