After I Threw Away My Sketchbook, I Became the Gallery Star Chapter 06

After I Threw Away My Sketchbook, I Became the Gallery Star Chapter 06

For the very first time, Mom and Dad took time off work on a weekday. They drove straight to my university

campus.

Seated in the academic advisor’s office, Mom still clung to her poised, polished posture. “Mrs. Lopez, how could the school fail to notify us of Rachel dropping out entirely? This is a catastrophic breakdown of official

protocol.”

Mrs. Lopez glanced at the immaculately dressed couple and adjusted her glasses. “Mr. Wright, Mrs. Wright.

Rachel is a legal adult. She submitted a voluntary withdrawal form, alongside audio recordings proving you

two refused to attend her mandatory oral defense.”

Mom’s features stiffened instantly. “Audio recordings?”

“Exactly.” Mrs. Lopez pulled up the file on her desktop. “She needed documented proof of unavoidable emergency circumstances to withdraw. The recording is officially filed with the school administration.”

“That was nothing more than heated words exchanged in the heat of the moment,” Dad said gruffly. “A private family dispute hardly qualifies as grounds to abandon her degree.”

“Mr. Wright.” Mrs. Lopez let out a weary sigh. “Alongside her withdrawal paperwork, she turned in a signed waiver declining all need-based grants. Were you aware half her tuition came from her part-time art work, and the other half from financial aid?”

Mom froze. “That can’t be true. We sent her a fixed monthly living stipend every single month.”

“Eight hundred dollars a month?” Mrs. Lopez flipped open a stack of documents. “That barely covers basic meals in this city, let alone costly fine art supplies.”/

“From what we’ve gathered, she freelanced illustration commissions for an extra three thousand monthly

-yet every cent was wired to an account under Starry Skies Arts Immersion Camp.”

Starry Skies Arts Immersion Camp. Dad’s face went rigid.

That was Catherine’s upcoming European art program-the very reason he’d drained three thousand dollars straight out of Rachel’s personal account without asking.

“She left a collection of artwork stored in the campus studio, and asked me to pass it along to you.”

Mrs. Lopez retrieved an oversized canvas tube from a storage cabinet and handed it to Mom.

Mom twisted off the cap and peered inside.

The graduation piece, Night Rain, rolled within. Mold bloomed along the damp basement-warped edges of the paper. Dead center of the composition sat the distinct US size 5 shoe print, burning into Mom’s line of sight.

“This was her capstone project, half a year in the making,” Mrs. Lopez’s tone turned frigid. “She said the work’s irreparably tainted, and she no longer wants it.”

Mom’s fingers trembled faintly. A memory crashed over her: the day she’d ordered the housekeeper to haul Rachel’s belongings-down to the basement, Catherine had trailed right beside her the entire time.

Dad lunged forward and snatched the canvas tube away. “Where did she go?”

“I have no information on her whereabouts. She never shared à destination.” Mrs. Lopez met their gazes evenly. “I’m only stating facts as her instructor. Rachel is extraordinarily talented and resilient. Yet within this family, it seems she was never truly seen at all.”

Stepping outside the administration building, the midday sun blazed unforgivingly bright.

Mom’s stiletto heels clicked unevenly across the concrete pavement, her steps faltering for the first time.

Once home, they headed straight for the basement, shoving open the rusted metal door. A thick wave of damp mildew washed over them.

Dad swept a flashlight beam across piles of discarded belongings, landing on a cardboard crate tucked against the wall, stuffed full of Rachel’s expense journals.

He knelt and flipped open the top notebook. Pages upon pages of tiny, meticulous handwriting stretched before his eyes.

March 12: Formatting work for professor, $800 income. Expense: Imported wool paintbrushes for

Catherine, $750..

April 5: Waitressing shift income, $1,200. Expense: Mother’s Day gift for Mom, $1,100.

May 20: Running fever. Medication: $35. Remaining balance: $15. Can’t afford a doctor’s visit.

Dad’s thumb stalled on the final line of that page, script faint as a quiet sigh: Today Catherine wants a crystal grand piano. Dad withdrew the fixed-term college savings set aside for my tuition. It’s fine-I’ll apply for more grants.

A single tear plopped onto the paper, smudging the fountain ink. Dad slammed the journal shut, his eyes bloodshot and burning.

Mom stood beside him, staring at piles of mildewed clothing stacked on the floor, her voice rough and hoarse. “Why did she never tell us any of this?”

“Would you have listened if she had?” Dad lifted his head, his voice rough and broken. “Callista. We wielded cold, calculated rationality like a weapon, and drove her to walk away from everything.”