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exhausted.

Emily shrugged. “I don’t know. Too many times to count.

We wouldn’t have to have it if you would just accept that I’m

never going to be a lawyer. I want to be an artist. Like you.”

“Slapping paint onto a canvas doesn’t make you an artist. It

takes more than that to survive in this industry.”

Emily blinked, stunned and stung by her mom’s response.

“But you know a million people,” she blurted. “Tons of your

friends would give me a chance. They’d let me get my foot in

the door. Just because my paintings won’t sell for thousands of

dollars doesn’t mean there won’t be a gallery that wouldn’t

want to display them. I wouldn’t expect to have my own show

for years. I’m not asking to be famous; I just want a start. I

want to keep doing what I love doing.”

“You can.” Sandra reached to her left and plucked a glass of

water off the side table. “You just can’t do it for a living.” As a

rule, she didn’t drink unless she was in a social setting, but

Emily could see quite clearly that her mom would have given

her left foot for a drink right about then.

“I don’t understand how you can sit there and be so

hypocritical. You tell me all the time that I shouldn’t want to

be an artist because it’s hard and it takes dedication and time

and it’s mostly about disappointment and forcing yourself to

meet deadlines and expectations and selling yourself, not your

work. I know all of that.” Emily paused. Her mom sipped her

water slowly. “You’re telling me that you don’t think I can do

it. Sell myself. Or maybe you’re actually saying that people

wouldn’t want to buy.”

Sandra nearly choked and set the water glass back down

with a thud on the poor end table. “That’s not what I mean.”