And on the closet floor—three boxes labeled in thick black marker:
JAXON—DO NOT THROW AWAY
I don’t sit. I drop. Straight to my knees.
The first box is full of clippings—concert reviews, magazine features, even bad interviews I thought had faded into obscurity. One is circled in red: “Farm Boy Makes Good.”
The second is packed with framed concert posters, and a photograph that stops my breath. My dad and I, years ago after one of my baseball games, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. He looks proud. Not in the flashy way. But in thatquiet, satisfied way I never noticed when I was too busy trying to prove myself.
The third box holds yellowing spiral notebooks.
Lots of and lots of notebooks.
I pull out one cautiously and flip it open with shaking hands. The pages are messy and barely legible. Lyrics I wrote before I knew how to be vulnerable, when I thought angst was depth and metaphor made me brave.
He kept them.
Every single scrap of almost-music I ever scribbled into being.
And then I see them—tucked on the other side of the box, a neat stack of letters. My breath catches as I pull them out and flip through, realizing every single one is addressed to me. Not a stamp in sight. None of them ever meant to be mailed.
I open the first, unfold the sheet of computer paper, and instantly recognize my dad’s scrawl. It’s recent—from my last birthday.
Jaxon,
I heard the tour was sold out. I can’t believe how far you’ve come. I wish your mom could see it. I’m proud of you, son. I’m glad you’ve got people like Kelsey and Carter looking out for you. Maybe it means you’re ready to come back for a visit.
I blink hard. My throat tightens as I move toward the end of the page.
I’m sorry for what I said all those years ago. The truth is, I blamed myself. And then I blamed you. I didn’t know how else to carry it. I see now how wrong I was. I hope someday you’ll forgive me.
My hands shake as I reach for the next one. The date in the corner makes my chest squeeze—four years ago.
Happy birthday, Jax. I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. Maybe that’s what makes it easier to be honest. I miss you. More than I can say. I don’t know how to fix what I broke.
Another.
Another year, another letter. I saw you on TV tonight. You looked strong. Confident. I hope you know I always believed you had it in you. I just…didn’t know how to say it without it sounding like I was weak. I guess that was my pride. And it cost me everything.
It’s why I came to your concert last year. Why I tried to come backstage to see you. I don’t blame you for turning me away, though. I would’ve done the same thing in your situation.
Each letter feels heavier, the words stacking like bricks on my chest. A story unfolding of a man who never forgave himself, who didn’t know how to bridge the gap with his son. One argument, one night of anger, stretched into silence that lasted the rest of his life.
By the time I reach the last letter, my vision blurs. I lean back against the bed, the stack clutched to my chest, and for the first time since he died—I cry.
Not the kind of cry that sneaks up and disappears. The kind that builds slowly. That presses behind your ribs until your whole chest caves in around it.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Izzy
You okay?
I call her.
She answers on the second ring. “Hey.”
I swallow hard. “I went into my dad’s room.”
