But curiosity and peer pressure win out, so after pressing my ear to my dad’s door to make sure he’s asleep, I wave Kiera down the hall.

When I make no move to open the door, Kiera reaches out and turns the doorknob. We’re greeted by a pitch-black room, so she takes the lead and feels her way along the wall until she finds a light switch.

Whoa.

I don’t know what I expected, but this is not it.

It’s like an art studio. Full of easels and paint with canvases propped up against the wall and the drop cloth Dad uses at his job during the day to protect the floors.

Kiera steps ahead of me to take a look around. “I knew your dad was a painter, Sweet Pea, but I didn’t know he was a painter.”

And he is. He really is. I wondered what Dad might be doing over here in all the hours he’d always filled with me and Mom. Now I see. Paintings of me. Me with Cheese. Grandma. Even a woman who looks like Miss Flora Mae. All of them with bright, popping backgrounds. Lime green. Fluorescent purple. Blinding yellow.

They’re not art-museum good (actually, I’ve never been to a real art museum, so what do I know?), but they’re good in a different kind of way. One canvas leaning against the wall is the only one not of a person or Cheese. This one is two identical houses side by side. No house in between. It’s the perfect-world version of my mom’s mirror-house plan.

“Hey!” says Kiera. “I love this one of you and Cheese!”

She holds up a canvas, and sure enough it’s me. Waves tamed into curls, black-and-white-striped turtleneck, my favorite black corduroy skirt, and a double chin. I’m sitting on a wooden chair, and Cheese sits curled in my lap. The background is a bright mustard yellow that fades at the edges into the white of the canvas.

My cheeks blush at the sight of myself. I see all the details that stand out to Dad when he looks at me—my hair, my smile, my eyes. It’s like I’m seeing myself through someone else’s eyes. The most artistic things I’d ever seen Dad do were his seasonal window paintings, and those were mostly turkeys or peppermint wheels, but this is real, actual art. “Wow. This is . . .”

“Beautiful,” Kiera finishes.

I nod. “It is.”

After we do a little more snooping around, we’re sure to leave everything just as we found it. We head back to my room, and Kiera and I decide to share my bed. One difference between Mom’s and Dad’s houses is that at Dad’s I have a bigger bed with plenty of room to share.

As we lie there, waiting to fall asleep, I think about telling Kiera about Miss Flora Mae and maybe even fessing up about the letter to her that I responded to.

But just as I open my mouth, Kiera says, “I can’t believe your dad has kept that room all shut off and hasn’t told you about it.”