After I Threw Away My Sketchbook, I Became the Gallery Star Chapter 03

After I Threw Away My Sketchbook, I Became the Gallery Star Chapter 03

I stepped out of the art association building, harsh midday sunlight stinging my eyes.

I’d spent six full months crafting Night Rain.

To capture neon streetlights rippling across rain-slicked pavement puddles, I’d camped out downtown every single rainy night for a full week.

Now the finished canvas would simply be rolled up and locked away in a dust sleeve.

I didn’t arrive home until three that afternoon. The entire house sat empty.

I pushed open my bedroom door, and a harsh wave of turpentine fumes hit me square in the face.

I froze in the doorway. My bookshelf, once lined against the far wall, had been shoved into a corner. My drawing easel had been disassembled and stowed somewhere out of sight.

In its place stood multiple oversized art supply crates, stacked high with premium paint tubes. Catherine’s easel sat front and center beneath my south-facing bay window—the room’s brightest, best natural light. Dried paint splatters dotted every inch of the wooden floor.

I took a slow, shaky breath, walked to the living room, and dialed Mom’s number.

“What happened to my bedroom?”

“You’ve seen it, then?” Mom’s tone remained flat, faint café jazz playing in the background of her call.

“Cathy says the star mural in her room is too dim to spark creative inspiration. Your bedroom faces south with perfect sunlight.”

“So what does that mean for my space?”

“I had the moving crew pack all your belongings and move them down to the basement storage.”

The basement.

“Did they take my paintings down there too?”

“Yes.” Mom’s voice didn’t shift. “Your pieces are just basic academic studies; they won’t suffer from minor basement humidity. You need to learn spatial planning and compromise.”

“That’s my bedroom.”

“The mortgage loan for this house is in Mason’s and my names on the Property Deed. As someone who’s never contributed to housing costs, you only have permission to use the space—you don’t hold any decision-making rights.”

This was how she always spoke: cold legal and economic terminology to carve a permanent divide between us.

“Cathy’s showing in a state-level invitational exhibition soon; she needs the optimal creative workspace.” Mom paused briefly. “As the older sister, yielding a little living space is a reasonable cost you should accept.”

“I understand.” I ended the call.

I didn’t scream, didn’t beg, didn’t argue. I already knew it would accomplish nothing.

I headed down to the basement and pushed open its rusted metal door.

No overhead lights turned on down there—only a thin shaft of daylight seeped through a tiny air vent near the ceiling.

All my textbooks, clothes, and canvases were piled haphazardly atop thin moisture-proof mats, discarded like trash.

I switched on my phone flashlight and knelt to dig through the clutter. At the absolute bottom of the pile, trapped beneath everything else, rested my rolled canvas of Night Rain.

The dust sleeve’s plastic cap had gone missing entirely. The edges of the painting paper were warped and wrinkled from damp basement air.

I carefully unrolled it, and a clear, dirt-streaked shoe print marked the center of the composition.

US size 5—Catherine’s shoe size.

I stared at that muddy footprint for a long time. The quiet part of my heart that had spent years making excuses for my parents suddenly split clean down the middle, shattering completely.

It wasn’t that they were logical and detached. Their favoritism was tangible, stamped right onto my best painting in dirt.

Seven p.m. rolled around before they returned home. Catherine carried a luxury designer shopping bag, grinning ear to ear.

“Rachel, look what Mom bought me! I’m wearing this to my exhibition opening next week.” She pulled out a floor-length ivory silk gown and twirled it in front of me.

The price tag read sixty-eight thousand dollars. Meanwhile, my three-thousand-dollar showcase deposit had been seized, dismissed as a worthless low-return expense.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” She blinked wide eyes at me.

“It’s lovely,” I replied evenly.

Dad slipped off his suit jacket and walked over. “Rachel, you need to attend Cathy’s opening next Friday as family, plus manage all media interviews that day. Great real-world experience for you.”

“Next Friday.” I locked eyes with him.

“Yes, is there an issue?”

Next Friday was the date of my senior thesis oral defense. Fail to defend on schedule, and I’d never receive my undergraduate diploma.

“I have my mandatory graduation oral defense that day.”

“You can request to delay graduation,” Dad brushed the concern aside. “Cathy’s exhibition marks a landmark moment in her artistic career. As part of this family unit, you can’t miss it.”

“If I delay my defense, I’ll lose eligibility for this year’s corporate graduate hiring cycle.”

“Then apply next year instead.” Mom wandered over holding a glass of water. “Women don’t need to rush into careers anyway. Prioritize supporting your family first—that’s your most valuable skill set.”

My core skill set, apparently, was waiting hand and foot on my little sister.

“What if I don’t go?” I asked quietly.

Mom halted mid-step, turning to face me with a heavy, intimidating stare. “Rachel, don’t act out for attention with petty teenage rebellion. Emotional manipulation tactics like this won’t work in this household.”

She set her water glass down hard on the side table. I’d told you before—this family runs on rationality. If you refuse to contribute, don’t expect any support in return.

I glanced at Catherine, peeking out from behind Mom’s hip, a faint triumphant smirk tugging at her lips.

“Fine,” I nodded once, my voice steady. “I’ll be there.”