But twenty minutes before the gallery opened, Arden walked in wearing a green dress Avery had never seen before. Her hair was parted differently. She wore no star necklace. No matching anything.
For the first time in their lives, they stood in a room where nobody had dressed them to belong to each other.
Arden stopped in front of the portrait.
She stared for a long time.
Then she whispered, “That’s how I looked?”
Avery stood beside her.
“That’s how we both looked.”
Arden covered her mouth.
Russell arrived a few minutes later and stood behind them. He did not say much, but Avery saw him wipe his eyes when he read the title card.
Dr. Morris approached, greeting him warmly.
“You must be Avery’s father.”
Russell shook her hand.
“I’m trying to deserve that sentence,” he said.
Avery looked at him.
He meant it.
That mattered.
The gallery evening should have been peaceful.
But near the end, as visitors moved through the room with paper cups of lemonade and quiet compliments, the front door opened again.
Marissa walked in.
The air changed instantly.
Avery felt it before she turned around, the way a house feels different when a storm moves over it.
Her mother wore a cream pantsuit, diamond earrings, and the wounded expression of a woman who knew how to perform dignity.
Arden stiffened.
Russell stepped forward. “Marissa, you shouldn’t be here.”
“I came to see my daughter’s work,” Marissa said.
Avery noticed the phrase.
My daughter.
Singular when useful.
Plural when profitable.
Dr. Morris approached politely. “This is a student exhibition. We ask that family interactions remain respectful.”
Marissa smiled at her without warmth.
“Of course.”
Then she walked to Avery’s portrait.
For a while, she said nothing.
Avery felt every old instinct rising inside her.
Explain it.
Soften it.
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