“Have a seat.” Mr. Beschloss steps behind the wide black desk that takes up the middle of the office and gestures toward the two high-backed silver chairs across from him. “So Marcus Webster informed me of your interest in the City Art Program and pursuing a career as a national artist. He said the trauma of your mother’s death derailed your ability to focus on your application, but that you are still passionate about your work and your future.”

He hits a button on the console of his desk, and the screens on the walls turn on. Drawings—my drawings—the projects Rose must have given to her father—suddenly surround me on three sides. One is a color portrait I did of Rose—her smile open and warm, but her eyes narrowed with the steely resolve I admire. Another is of Navy Pier with the Ferris wheel, the ride I went on at least a dozen times with my parents, soaring above the boardwalk, surrounded by the glistening lake that the country worked so hard to make fresh and clean again.

The final image looks nothing like the others. Most wouldn’t recognize it as mine. The lines are thicker, darker, and more angular than the other two. The streetlight glows at the edge of the picture, but the illumination barely cuts through the shadows of the night that surrounds the sidewalk and building. It was the first picture I drew in art class after my mother’s accident, for an assignment that asked us to paint a place we recently visited in the city. Everyone else created images of Wrigley Field and Buckingham Fountain. I drew the site of my mother’s death. I didn’t keep a copy, but Mrs. Rudoren must have saved the file after I turned it in and given it to Rose when she asked for it.

“Did you bring other samples for me to look at?” Mr. Beschloss asks.

I nod and click on my tablet. My fingers tremble as I call up the portfolio and hand it over the desk.

He strokes his little beard as he flips through the files. “Your mother must have been proud. Did she work with you on these or influence the subjects you chose to draw? Maybe nudge you to find inspiration by talking about locations she appreciated or ideas she thought should be explored?”

I try to ignore the dark sidewalk in the picture still being displayed on the tablet to the right of me. “She did when I was little. A few years ago, when I got more serious about my art, she took a step back and encouraged me to find my own way. And in the last year she stopped volunteering information about her own projects.” I add the last because I don’t like the insinuation that I drew only what my mother instructed me to draw. Whether the projects are good enough or not, they are mine.

“How interesting.” The flat, beige color of his voice tells me he thinks my words are far less than interesting. “I would have thought with another artist in the house she would have been excited to share her projects and stories about the people she worked with.”