Kevin stayed planted on the sofa. “Son, only a handful of musicians ever made any money from their music. And most of them are dead.”
I folded my arms. “And you walked away from a job with a six-figure salary.”
“What good is making money if you feel dead inside? What good is having a nice car if you drive it to a job you hate? Didn’t you tell me about what that one guy said to you? ‘People have the right to change their mind.’”
“But you worked for Google! They give you free gourmet food!”
“Mom, it’s not me! It’s not me!” Henry’s voice began to quiver. “Maybe you can spend the last 30 years moving bits around, but it’s not me!”
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