Sarah finally looked up at me. Her eyes were tired, surrounded by deep wrinkles that hadn’t been there eight years ago. “She doesn’t want to see you, Art. She is doing fine without us.”

But I couldn’t just let it go. The guilt was eating a hole in my ribs. That Saturday, I got into my old Chevy and drove three hours west to Chicago. I had the address of the gallery where her show was being held.

The gallery was in a wealthy neighborhood with brick streets and big glass storefronts. Inside, the walls were stark white, and there were people walking around holding glasses of wine. They were dressed in expensive coats, talking in hushed, polite voices.

And there, hanging on the far wall, was the painting of my kitchen.

I walked toward it, my heavy work boots clattering against the polished concrete floor. Several people turned to look at me, but I didn’t care. I stood in front of that canvas, and my eyes welled up with hot, stinging tears.

From ten feet away, it looked exactly like our kitchen. But when I got closer, I saw the details. She had painted the tiny crack in the window frame that I’d never gotten around to fixing. She had painted the exact blue shade of the dish towels Sarah liked.

“It’s sold, sir,” a young woman with a clipboard said, stepping up beside me. “But we have a print catalog if you’re interested.”

“I’m her father,” I said.

The woman stopped. Her polite gallery smile vanished, replaced by a look of sudden, awkward discomfort. She looked at my work jacket, then back at the painting. “Oh,” she said. “I see.”

“Is she here?” I asked.

“She is in the back office with the gallery director,” the woman said, pointing toward a heavy wooden door at the back of the room.

I didn’t wait. I walked past her and knocked on the door. When it opened, Maya was standing there.

She was twenty-five now, but she looked older. Her dark hair was cut short, and she was wearing a simple black sweater. She was holding a cup of black coffee. When she saw me, she didn’t gasp. She didn’t drop her cup.

She just stood there, her face turning completely still. It was the exact same expression she had worn by the screen door eight years ago.

“Dad,” she said. Her voice was quiet, completely level.

“Maya,” I choked out. “I saw the catalog. I saw the kitchen.”

The gallery director, an older man in a tailored suit, looked between us and quickly stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

“I didn’t think you’d care about art auctions,” Maya said. She set her coffee cup down on the desk. Her movements were slow, deliberate.