I found a rickety wooden stool near the ancient mixing board and sat down, my fingers tracing the cold metal of the faders. The room was dark, except for the weak glow of the bare bulb. Outside, the sounds of Bankhead Highway were muted, the world a distant hum.
I pulled out my phone. The screen flashed, illuminating my face with a harsh, blue light. It was showing a live feed of the Crown Royalty Records platinum anniversary gala. My sons were still there, on stage now, accepting an award for “Visionary Leadership.”
I could hear the distant bass of their album launch party echoing through my phone speakers. Their album. A collaboration, celebrated for its “fresh, contemporary sound” and “unapologetic swagger.” The very swagger Marcus had perfected.
Their faces, triumphant and radiant, filled my small screen. They spoke of growth, innovation, and pushing boundaries. They thanked their “mentors” – not me, not the quiet guidance I had offered, but the industry figures who had groomed them, who had promised them endless fame and fortune.
I closed my eyes, the image of their faces, Marcus’s face, blurring into one. I had spent fourteen years keeping my sons out of the spotlight’s glare. I had fought a war to protect them from the toxic allure of the music industry.
And I had won.
But winning hadn’t destroyed the monster. It had merely handed my sons the crown. I had built them a stage inside the very cage I died to escape.
I opened my eyes to the cold, damp concrete of the basement studio. Alone, in the dark, with my songs. The circle was unbroken. The fight had simply brought me back to where I started, with my heart full of music, and my soul heavy with the weight of a victory that felt, in its own way, like a profound loss.
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