Then he set it down.
“How long did this one take?”
“Three days.”
“And this?”
“About a week.”
He looked at the next page.
“And this?”
I couldn’t answer.
My throat closed.
I had spent the entire day trying to act as though the destroyed drawings were something I could calmly accept.
But sitting in that little office, with my uncle looking at work he knew I had poured so much of myself into, the effort finally became too much.
“I don’t know if I can finish it,” I whispered.
He looked up.
“The portfolio?”
I nodded.
“There’s too much missing.”
My voice cracked.
“I worked so hard.”
He moved his chair closer.
“I know.”
I shook my head.
“I didn’t even do anything to him.”
“I know.”
“I just wanted to go to school.”
Then I started crying.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
I bent forward with my hands over my face, trying to catch my breath while tears slipped between my fingers.
My uncle stayed beside me.
He didn’t tell me to be strong.
He didn’t say the drawings were only paper.
He didn’t tell me there were worse things in life.
He let me be seventeen years old and heartbroken over something I had loved.
When I finally looked up, he handed me a tissue.
Then he said, “Those drawings were important.”
I nodded.
“And losing them hurts.”
“Yeah.”
“But you need to hear something.”
I wiped my face.
“The talent that made those drawings didn’t disappear when he tore the pages.”
I stared at him.
My uncle touched the folder.
“He damaged your work. He didn’t take your ability to make more.”
I looked down at the broken lines.
“I don’t know if there’s enough time.”
“Then we’ll find out.”
He gave me a small smile.
“One problem at a time.”
I took a slow breath.
For the first time since the morning, I believed that might actually be possible.
