That “gentleman” pierced me. He wasn’t Dad anymore . He never had been, really.
“I thought you were dead,” I said without thinking.
“I was,” he replied, shrugging. “In many ways. But I suppose small deaths also teach you how to live.”
I didn’t know what to say.
He led me to a small private room behind the gallery.
On a table were folders, sketches, and photographs.
“I want you to see this,” he said.
They were paintings, portraits, and newspaper clippings.
One showed a barefoot teenager in a shelter. Another, a young man handing out donations at a soup kitchen. Then there were photos of exhibitions, grants, and awards.
“I slept in train stations for two years,” he told me without drama. “Then I met an art teacher who let me draw in her studio at night, in exchange for cleaning the floor. She was the first person to call me son .”
I felt my stomach clench.
—When I received the grant, I used his last name for a while. Then, when I founded the gallery, I went back to my own. Not to honor him… but to close the book on him.
I swallowed.
“Ethan, I…”
He interrupted me with a gesture.
“I didn’t come here to hear apologies.”
—So… why did you ask me to come?
Her gaze softened slightly.
“Because I want to show you something else.”
She took out one last painting, covered with a black cloth. She slowly lifted it.
It was a portrait.
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