“What is it supposed to be?” he asked.
I could see the disappointment on his face.
I felt the old fury rising. My selfish son.
I struggled to keep my voice calm.
“It’s a bicycle, John.”
“It looks weird. The wheels don’t turn. And what’s with the seat?”
“It’s a work of art. Your aunt created it. She left it to you in her will.”
“I never even met her.”
“She wanted you to have it. She was famous, you know. Your aunt.”
His eyes took on a different cast.
He picked up the sculpture, studying it for a signature.