She laughed bitterly.
“Would he?”
I stared at her.
She looked down.
“Clara, you had him every day. I had him on weekends. Sometimes.”
I thought about the conversation with Aunt Patricia.
“Grandma told me about your graduation exhibition.”
Vanessa’s head lifted.
“What?”
“I didn’t know.”
She stared at me.
Then her face tightened.
“Of course you didn’t.”
I waited.
“You were twelve. You were sick. Everybody was worried about you.”
“I know.”
“And Dad promised he’d come see my paintings.”
Her voice broke.
“He said he was proud of me. That he’d be in the front row when they gave out the awards.”
I pictured her standing beside her work.
Waiting.
“He didn’t come,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry.”
She wiped beneath one eye.
“He always had a good reason. Work. Traffic. Something happening at your house. He never said he loved you more.”
She looked at me.
“But he didn’t have to.”
I stood very still.
I wanted to tell her about all the times Dad had praised her.
How he displayed her paintings in his office.
