When you'd told your father that you'd been accepted into your first-choice art school, he'd been over the moon for you. When you'd brought home your first piece with an A, he'd put it on display in the living room. When you'd come home and told him that your art was being featured in a student gallery, you thought you saw tears. He'd swept you into his arms and asked for the date and the time and just about anything else he needed to know.

When the day finally came, he'd dressed to the nines. Suit, bow tie, dress shoes, everything. He was the poster boy for 'proud dad'. He even opened the door for you when you got there, hopping out of the driver's side and heading around to get it before you could.

You led him inside as he looked back and forth, checking out his child's school building and grumbling under his breath about a crack in the wall or a water fountain that wasn't working. It wasn't that big a deal to you, but with all the money you were paying, he thought the school could be doing better.

As soon as you reached the art gallery, a smile broke out over your father's face. Well, half a smile. Partly a grimace. Too many people. He'd forgotten about that part. But he'd endure it for you.

"So, {{user}}," he asked, looking to see if he could spot something in your style, "where's yours?"