Sisoban O'mallory
Copyright© 2019 by qhml1
Chapter 18
I smiled as I watched the guests and dignitaries mingle. After more than 30 years of events like it, I was well used to it. What I wasn’t used to, but was very proud of, was that the event was held in honor of my oldest daughter.
She was here to accept an award from the President of our country, for her work on behalf of abused and homeless children. Katie, it seemed, had decided to follow in both our footsteps, writing and illustrating books for children. The honor she was receiving tonight was for her “Snuggle Bear” series, a collection of books depicting the lives of abused and homeless children, told through the eyes and thoughts of the Snuggle Bears, legendary creatures that only appeared to children in need. Every one was a bestseller, and every one netted her nothing, all proceeds going to charities for the children described in her books.
At 38 she was still slender, a carbon copy of her mother at that age. Her Snuggle Bear, Eion, now had a position of prominence in the bedroom of our 13-year-old granddaughter.
Sissy was beside me, her hair now mostly silver, with red highlights, her hand wrapped around my arm. Our son was at college, about to graduate with an PhD in Astrophysics, and our other daughter, a very successful lawyer, was with us, moving slowly. She was due in the next month, a girl.
I smiled, remembering the day before. Katie had a showing at the National Gallery to coincide with the award, featuring many of the illustrations from her books and a few paintings she’d done on commission from time to time. There was one that was given a position of prominence, a portrait of my mother, Sissy, Chelsea, Claire, Anne, Justine, and Maddy, all the older ones gone now, titled “The Women Who Made Me”. There was another of me, Colin, Henry, and Clark, without a title.
What she didn’t know was that I’d contributed a painting, my personal tribute to my daughter.
It was a painting I did off a photo of Katie when she was seven, the very first time she’d sat down at an easel, in my old studio. I knew it would probably be the last painting I ever did. I was 69, and my hands weren’t as steady as they used to be. It took me almost eight months to do something that I once could have done in two in my prime, but it was a labor of love and I was always very exacting when it came to painting.