After I Threw Away My Sketchbook, I Became the Gallery Star Chapter 10

After I Threw Away My Sketchbook, I Became the Gallery Star Chapter 10

Mom snapped her head upward, face etched with disbelief. “Rachel, are you holding onto resentment toward me? I can change we can rebuild our relationship from the start.”

“I hold no resentment. I simply no longer care.” I met her tearful eyes unflinchingly. “You once insisted resources must be allocated logically and fairly. You were correct about that.”

“I’ve learned to direct all my time, money, and care toward myself now. I don’t need anything from either of

you anymore.”

I lifted the folder off the table and pressed it back into Dad’s hands. “Keep the money for yourselves. Consider it full compensation to release us both from the obligations of this broken parent-child bond.”

“Please do not seek me out again.”

I turned my back and pushed open the lounge door, stepping out into the gallery crowd without a single backward glance.

Muffled, broken sobs echoed from the room behind me, yet I never hesitated or slowed my pace for even one

step.

My group exhibition was a resounding critical and commercial success. Drowning was formally signed over to the private collector who’d placed the advance offer. The gallery director hosted a small celebratory dinner to mark the show’s triumph.

Midway through the reception, my cell phone rang-my art advisor, Mrs. Lopez.

“Rachel, the school administration rejected your withdrawal application entirely. They converted your paperwork to a one-year leave of absence instead.” Warm relief hummed in her voice over the line.

“Your parents pulled every professional connection they possess. Your mother even appeared before the school board to issue a formal public apology, providing full documentation that your missed oral defense

stemmed from severe family emergency obligations.”

“You’re eligible to return next year, complete your defense, and receive your bachelor’s degree.”

I clutched my glass of fruit juice and gazed out the restaurant window at New York’s glittering nighttime

skyline.

“Thank you, Mrs. Lopez. I will go back to finish my defense. But this achievement belongs solely to me–not them. I earned that degree through my own effort.”

“Brave girl.” Mrs. Lopez sighed gently. “Some family bonds are written by fate, but they cannot be forced to fit when they’ve already broken irreparably.”

hung up the phone and drained the fruit juice in my glass in one long sip.

One month later, the first cold winds of late autumn rolled into the city.

I returned to my apartment after work to find an enormous shipping cardboard box propped against my

front door. It was from my Dad.

I sliced through the packing tape with a craft blade.

At the very top lay a thick manila envelope. Inside sat a Property Deed, the title registered solely under my

name.

It was the attic loft single-family apartment I’d casually mentioned loving once years ago.

Beneath the paperwork rested all my paintings rescued from the moldy basement storage. They’d hired top-tier professional art restorers to carefully repair every water-stained, mildew-ridden canvas to pristine

condition.

Night Rain hung encased inside an expensive custom hardwood frame; the muddy US size 5 shoe print had been seamlessly blended into a soft, shadowy cloud wash with expert color matching.

I unpacked each layer of belongings one by one. At the absolute bottom of the box sat a tiny, delicately wrapped gift box. I lifted the lid open. A brand-new blank sketchbook rested inside.

On the first page, a plump, sweet kitten drawn in smooth graphite pencil stared back at me-exquisitely detailed, flawless rendering of light and shadow.

A small line of script was scrawled in the bottom right corner: To my proudest eldest daughter, Rachel.

Mom.

I sank cross-legged onto the hardwood floor, the sketchbook balanced in my lap as I brushed my fingertips softly over the delicate pencil lines of the kitten.

This was everything ten-year-old me had begged and ached to receive. Now that I no longer craved their

love or validation, it arrived wrapped in perfect, costly care.

No surge of warmth or gratitude washed over me-only a tangled, bitter ache, like biting into an unripe persimmon.

At long last, they’d finally seen me. But this perfectly drawn kitten could never mend the lonely little girl who’d stood beneath the ladder all those years ago, eyes shining with desperate hope, only to be brushed off with a dismissive suggestion to use a copy machine.

I closed the sketchbook. I tucked it alongside the loft apartment deed into the deepest drawer of my

bookshelf.

I did not throw it away, yet I knew I would never turn its pages again. It stood as a complete encapsulation of

I rose to any feet and crossed to the apartment window, sliding the glass open to let crisp cold winter air Lusk inside.

Neon billboards flickered far down the city streets. Tomorrow would bring clear, bright sunshine.

I walked to the corner bakery and bought an entire box of strawberry cake.

This time, every single pastry inside was mine, and mine alone.

(End)