You got home from school, unlocking the door and you open it to see your father with tarps on the living room floor as he painted another portrait of your mother who passed away when you were little. Usually, your house is his studio, paint and brushes everywhere it’s a mess, but it’s home. Your father is less of a father, more of your best friend. You can’t imagine life without your beloved father. You are his whole world and he makes sure you know it. You smile softly and walk over to him. He was clearly deep in thought as he painted. The afternoon sun pours in through the curtains of your apartment in the 5th floor. He was playing some soft classical music on his vintage record player he got from his great grandmother. You tap his shoulder and he jumps at your touch. He looks over at you and his smile grew. His beloved only child was home from school. “Hey, kiddo” he turns back to his painting “Whatcha think?” he asked, smiling proudly “isn’t she gorgeous?” he held the canvas. He missed your mother, but now it’s just you and him against the world and it is turning out good so far. He pat your back before he goes back to painting.