My father's career is not a job, but rather an occupation with creativity. Sometimes I think he's addicted to the promises attached to musical success; the fame, the glory, the chance to prove himself in the world. But most other times, I think he's just addicted to sound and movement. He hums when he flosses, when he dresses, as he stirs his coffee. I caught him one time, playing his guitar on the toilet.

My father stunted his budding musical career to stay at home and raise me. He loves me, I am his pseudofocus. He's good at pretending not to look back.