Looking back, it’s hard not to be a little embarrassed. Girl from tiny town in Connecticut goes to New York to become artist. Wears black and pierces nose. Fails to set the art world on fire. Becomes waitress, then teacher, then sells out. Eventually goes home to help ailing parent.

The thing was, I’d been sincere. At eighteen, my heart was pure, my determination boundless. I was talented . . . I’d won first prize in the annual Stoningham art show since I was fourteen and even sold three paintings at Coastal Beauty Art Gallery in Mystic. I’d placed third in the Young Artists of Connecticut Competition, Acrylics.

I couldn’t remember a time when I didn’t draw or paint. I loved it so much—the smells, the textures, the way a single flicker of a brush could take you on a journey, how the slightest color variation could make all the difference. I loved mixing paints, the sweet perfection of a new brush, like the smallest baby animal, so soft and innocent and full of potential. I loved seeing something come from nothing. And not just something, but an experience. Not just a picture, but emotions, an entire story in a frame. There was nothing else I wanted to do.

Of course I was going to New York to study art! What other city in America was there for art? (Aside from Austin, Denver, San Francisco, Chicago, etc., but I was young and ill-informed.) New York it would be.

Dad was encouraging—“Of course! Follow your dream, sugarplum!” Mom was baffled.

“An art major?” she cried, as if I’d said assassin for drug cartel. “What are you going to do with an art major? Your sister is an architect!” Just in case I’d forgotten what Perfection from Conception did for a living.

Speaking of Juliet, who was also sitting in judgment, she laughed. “You’re adorable. Do you like living in cardboard boxes?”

“Have you ever been to a museum?” I asked in my oh-so-sophisticated way.

“I’ve designed museums, Sadie.”

“Then you should remember that they’re just places to hold art. Have you ever bought a painting? Seen a movie?” I raised an eyebrow at my mother in response to her snort of disapproval. “People who think art is a waste of time should have to live in a world without color.”

“Have you ever been poor?” Jules asked. “Ever eaten at a soup kitchen?”

“This might come as a shock to you, Jules, but money and luxury aren’t everything.” She’d just built her house on the water, tearing down an old gray-shingled cottage to construct what was admittedly a fabulous home with views from every angle. “You’re all very narrow-minded,” I said. “Except you, Daddy.”

“Well,” he said. “If you can’t follow your dreams now, baby, when can you?”

“See?” I said, hugging him.