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“What’s this?” He reads out loud “See portrait What portrait?”

“It’s nothing” I stand, collectingI want is to continue this conversation

“Ruby Banks, what portrait?”

Depositing s in thecubby behindroo his scotch

Myfresh plate is in front of him

“It’s nothing, really” I hold out the brown folder

He takes it, and my breath stills

My stomach is sick

What will my father see when he looks at er and disapproval always looking back atto his heart, break the stone wall around it? Or will he only see what he sees every day in the mirror? Are disappointment and frustration how he views the world?

The heavy brown cover opens, and his expression doesn’t change as he studies the lines and shading, the positive and negative space

My clasped hands squeeze tighter I don’t want hi as

The truth is, I agree with Ms Hughes I’ likeness, even if it is distant and cold When I’, I feel like I’m alive, and the harder I work, the more it turns out exactly as I’d hoped

It’s exciting and fulfilling…

I don’t want him to take what I love and kill it

He closes the cover and tosses it aside “A useless degree”