As a teen, I dreamed of playing guitar but we were broke. Every day I passed a store window, staring at the same instrument, imagining myself on stage. I’d tell Dad; he’d just listen—no promises, no pep talks. I mistook silence for indifference.
One day I came home raging: my friends had lessons, I had nothing. Dad nodded and left. I sulked, convinced my dreams were doomed.
Days later, a beat-up second-hand guitar waited on my bed. Dad had worked overtime in secret. A note read: “Dreams take time. Start here.”
His quiet wasn’t apathy; it was action. Love arrived not in words but in calloused hands and extra shifts.
I still play that guitar. It’s scarred, out-of-tune, perfect. It taught me beginnings are messy, patience is power, and support can be silent yet seismic. Every chord reminds me: dreams take time, and every step counts.
