“I honestly didn’t think you had that many memories of her.”
Connor looked over at his second-oldest brother. “I was six years old, Adrian. Not six months. Of course, I still had memories of my little sister.”
“Well, sure,” Adrian said, “but I didn’t think they’d be quite that vivid.” He gestured to the painting still sitting on Connor’s easel. “You always had your nose stuck in a book, even then. I didn’t think you noticed most of what went on around you.”
“I noticed a lot more than people thought. It wasn’t always easy being the quiet one in a family of rowdy boys. And Darcie,” he added, thinking of his older sister who had always given her brothers a run for their money. “Then, Dory came along, and she was so full of life.” He swallowed hard and Adrian squeezed his shoulder.
“And you captured that. I’ve always been amazed by your talent, but this is something else.”
That took Connor by surprise. “Really? I never figured you thought much of it. It’s not like it makes any difference.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing.” Why had he even said that? So what if his art wasn’t changing the world? It wasn’t saving lives. He wasn’t shaping young minds, like their oldest brother. Wasn’t keeping the streets safe, like Adrian. Did that really make what he did less?
He hated the voice in his head that always said it did. And he certainly didn’t want to admit his insecurities to his brother, who seemed to have everything he’d ever wanted now.
When would Connor get there? Maybe never at the rate he was going.