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A long pause followed.
“I never really understood what your work entailed,” she finally admitted. “I assumed that…”
“Something like that,” she acknowledged, and I heard what might have been a hint of remorse in her voice. “Your father and I, we’ve been talking about what you said at dinner.”
I remained silent, unwilling to make this easier for her.
“We may have been short-sighted regarding your career choices,” she continued with evident difficulty. “Your father found some of your other publications online. He was particularly interested in the conservation aspect of your work with the wolfpack.”
This was as close to an apology as Diana Westbrook had likely ever offered anyone. I recognized the enormous effort it must have required from her.
“Thank you for saying that,” I responded, neither accepting nor rejecting the olive branch. “It means something to hear you acknowledge my work.”
“Your exhibition,” she said tentatively. “The one you mentioned. Is that invitation still open?”
“It is,” I confirmed. “March 10th at the Garson Gallery in Manhattan.”
“We’ll be there,” she said with the decisive tone I recognized from childhood, the one that meant the matter was settled. “Your father has already put it in his calendar.”
The following months brought changes I couldn’t have anticipated. The National Geographic cover opened doors that had previously been firmly closed. My inbox filled with assignment offers, speaking engagement requests, and licensing inquiries. The six-month predator documentation project expanded to include educational components and a potential book deal.
My exhibition at the Garson Gallery exceeded all expectations. The space was packed for the opening night, and to my genuine surprise, my entire family attended. My father, uncomfortable in the artistic environment but making a visible effort to engage. My mother, who had clearly researched enough photography terminology to make appropriate small talk with other attendees. Even Amanda came, though she spent most of the evening ensuring Jackson stayed close to her side.
“This is extraordinary work, Sheldon,” Jackson said, examining a large-format print of two wolves silhouetted against a mountain sunrise. “The composition, the lighting—it tells a complete story in a single frame.”
“That’s the goal,” I acknowledged. “To capture not just the animal, but its context, its relationship with the environment.”
My father cleared his throat.
“The gallery owner mentioned you’re documenting habitat destruction in the Pacific Northwest next month.”
The fact that he’d sought out this information independently, that he’d initiated a conversation about my work, felt like a seismic shift.
He nodded thoughtfully.
“There are some interesting public health implications to that ecosystem collapse. My colleague at the CDC published a paper on related disease vector changes last year.”
It wasn’t effusive praise or a complete understanding of my work, but it was an attempt to find common ground—to build a bridge between his world and mine. For Thomas Westbrook, this represented enormous growth.
As the months passed, our relationship slowly transformed. The change wasn’t dramatic or complete. My parents still occasionally made comments that revealed their fundamental worldview remained intact. But there was effort now, a conscious attempt to see me as I was rather than as they had wanted me to be.
Amanda took longer to adjust. Her identity had been so thoroughly built around being the successful child that my rising professional standing threatened her self-perception. Our interactions remained strained, though the open hostility had faded.
