Page 32 of Echoes of a Southern Song

“Watch your mouth.”

“Or what?” I pace the length of the porch. “You’ll disown me? Oh wait—you already did when I left.”

The line goes quiet for a moment. I can hear Dad’s harsh breathing on the other end. My pulse is pounding in my ears, my fingers gripping the phone so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t crack.

“You think you’re so damn clever,” he finally says. “But you’re just running away, Jack. You always have been. Can’t handle the real work, so you hide behind that guitar like it’s going to solve all your problems.”

“Real work?” I snap, my voice rising. “You call breaking your back for pennies real work? I’m out here actually making something of myself, and you can’t stand it because it’s not what you wanted for me.”

“Making something of yourself?” he scoffs. “You’re a glorified jukebox in a dive bar. That’s not making something of yourself, Jack. That’s wasting your life.”

I clench my jaw so hard it aches. “At least I’m happy. At least I’m not stuck in the same rut you’ve been in for thirty years, hating every minute of it.”

“Happy?” His laugh is bitter, cutting through me like a knife. “You think this is about happiness? Life isn’t about being happy, boy. It’s about responsibility. It’s about taking care of what’s yours.”

“And what’s mine?” I fire back, my voice shaking now. “The farm? The cows? The dirt? That was never mine, Dad. That was yours. You never gave me a choice. You never asked me what I wanted. You just expected me to fall in line like Michael and Caleb. Well, I’m not them. I never will be.”

I hear Dad’s breathing on the other end, ragged and uneven. I can picture him, pacing in the field wearing his old, stained and dirty hat. His face is red and he’s kicking at invisible rocks. I’ve seen him like that before. Usually, it’s at someone trying to screw him over with the price of feed. Or it’s me. Never Caleb or Michael. Only I have the ability to piss him off like that.

“You think you’re so different,” he says. “But you’re just like me, Jack. Stubborn. Proud. And too damn scared to admit when you’re wrong.”

I swallow hard, my throat tight. “Maybe I am like you,” I say finally. “But that doesn’t mean I have to live your life.”

The line goes dead. No goodbye, no parting shot. Just silence.

I throw my phone onto the table hard enough to make the lemonade glasses rattle. The anger burns through me, white-hot and familiar.

Not a career. A hobby.

Like I’m still that scrawny kid getting laughed at in the school hallway. Like nothing I’ve accomplished here matters.

Aggie steps back onto the porch. She must’ve heard at least part of the conversation, but she doesn’t comment. Instead, she just picks up the empty plates and pats my shoulder as she walks past.

Aggie’s words echo in my head: Might be time to think bigger.

I pick up the hammer again, slamming it into the next nail with enough force to split the wood. Maybe that’s what I need to do. I have to go bigger, to prove once and for all that this isn’t just some phase.

Recording. Touring. Real success.

The kind even my father can’t ignore. I need my name in lights. Billboards. I want my face on TV.

“Everything okay?” Aggie asks.

“Peachy.” I force a smile. “Hey, any chance I can play more nights? Maybe weekends too?”

Aggie raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure? I thought we were saving your voice?”

“I’m sure. My voice is fine. I need the tips. And the exposure. If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind a bit,” she says. “Come inside. I’ve got brownies.”

I follow her in, the anger still simmering under my skin. But now there’s something else, too—a determination, a plan taking shape.

If Dad wants to dismiss my music as a hobby, I’ll make it impossible to ignore.

I’ll make sure the whole damn world hears me.