“Very,” I’d agreed.
“Leu’s Beijing series. Commentary on urbanization and cultural displacement. Brilliant.”
“Ah, yes,” I said, “I see that now.”
He’d smiled. “I’m David. Collector. You?”
“Barbara Whitmore. Mother of the gallery owner.”
“Michael’s your son? Lucky man. This is a wonderful space. He and Sasha have excellent taste.”
“They work hard,” I said. “It shows.”
“Enjoy the evening,” he said, and moved on.
I’d continued wandering and found Michael near the back of the main gallery. He’d been talking to a couple—woman in a designer dress, man in a perfectly tailored suit. Serious collectors, based on their questions about pricing and availability. Michael had seen me, and his face had lit up.
“Mom, you made it.”
He’d excused himself, come over, hugged me. Genuine warmth. My son—my only child.
“This is incredible, Michael. I’m so proud.”
“Thanks, Mom. It’s been insane getting ready. But I think it’s working. We’ve already sold three pieces tonight.”
“In the first hour?” I said.
“Leu is going to be thrilled.”
“Where is he?”
“Holding court in the back room. Want to meet him?”
“Maybe later. Let him enjoy his moment. I’ll just wander and look.”
“Perfect. Let me finish with these collectors and I’ll give you the full tour. There’s some amazing work in the side galleries. Take your time.”
“Do your job. I’m fine on my own.”
He’d squeezed my hand and returned to the collectors. I’d felt proud watching him work—professional, confident. My son had built something real.
I wandered through the main gallery into a smaller side gallery—more Leu pieces—then into another side gallery. Photographs by a different artist: black and white, architectural, beautiful compositions. Then into a corridor connecting the gallery spaces to what looked like offices and storage. Quieter. Fewer people.
I’d been examining a small sculpture on a pedestal when Sasha found me.
My daughter-in-law—38 years old, tall, slender, blonde, beautiful in that effortless way wealthy people achieve. Good genes maintained by expensive trainers, nutritionists, dermatologists. Wearing a dress that probably cost more than my monthly mortgage payment. Art history degree from Yale. Family money. Her father owned commercial real estate across three states. Everything about her screamed sophistication and entitlement.
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