I called my sister Clara. Her husband, George, had the full digital catalog on his computer, and she agreed to read the titles to me over the phone. Clara had to repeat the words twice because my brain was refusing to process them. George had the digital gallery catalog pulled up on his tablet in their living room over in Jackson. I could hear him clicking his mouse in the background while Clara talked.

“Are you sure you want to hear this, Art?” Clara asked. Her voice was hesitant. She sounded sorry for me, which felt worse than her being angry.

“Just read them, Clara,” I said. My voice was cracked.

“The next one is called: The Day He Told Me I Would Never,” she said quietly.

A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. I remembered that day. It was the afternoon I found her sketching behind the garage instead of doing her algebra homework. I had snatched the paper from her hand and ripped it in half. I told her she would never amount to anything if she kept wasting her time.

“What are the others?” I asked, gripping the receiver.

“The third painting was titled: It’s Just a Hobby for Rich Kids,” Clara said. “I remember saying that on a rainy Thursday night in April. Maya had left her paintbrushes soaking in a jar of murky water on the bathroom sink, and I’d knocked it over, spilling blue-green water all over my work boots.

I’d lost my temper. I told her that real people didn’t have time to clean up pretty little messes.”

“And there is another titled: Lansing Community College is Enough for You,” Clara added softly.

Every single painting was named after a cruel line I had yelled at her. She had taken every piece of verbal poison I had handed her and turned it into a gallery showcase. She had used my own words to build her career.

I hung up the phone and walked into the kitchen. Sarah was sitting at the table, shelling peas into a plastic bowl. The sound of the peas hitting the plastic was the only noise in the house.

“She is in Chicago,” I said. “She is selling paintings for twenty thousand dollars.”

Sarah didn’t look up. She kept her eyes on her hands, cracking open a green pod with her thumb. “I know,” she said.

My heart stopped. “You knew?”

“She calls me from a pay phone twice a year, Art,” Sarah whispered. Her voice was completely flat. “She asked me not to tell you. She said she didn’t want your advice on her taxes.”

I stood there, feeling like the biggest fool in Michigan. My wife had been talking to my daughter for years, and I had been left in the dark, nursing my stupid, stubborn pride.

“I want to see her,” I said.