“Why didn’t you tell me?” Fiona asked finally. “About any of this?”
“I did tell you. I texted you about the festival, about submitting work?—”
“No, I mean—” Fiona gestured at the wall. “This. Why didn’t you show me you could dothis?”
“When would I have shown you?”
The question landed like a stone.
Fiona stared at her daughter. At the photographs on the wall. At the evidence of a talent she’d never seen, never nurtured, never even known existed.
“You’re right,” she said quietly. “When would you have shown me? I never asked. I never looked. I was too busy with—” She stopped. Swallowed. “With everything except what mattered.”
“Mum—”
“No, let me say this.” Fiona moved closer to the Margo photograph, studying it. “I’m a photographer. That’s my job, my training, my supposed expertise. And I didn’t see that my own daughter had this gift. That my own daughter was creating art while I was — what? Checking emails? Managing the twins’ schedules? Pretending everything was fine?”
“You were busy. You had a lot going on.”
“I was absent. Present in the house but absent in every way that mattered.” Fiona turned to face her. “You felt invisible. You told me that. And I didn’t listen. I thought you were being dramatic, or going through aphase, or just... teenage stuff. But you were telling me the truth, weren’t you? You felt like I couldn’t see you.”
Stella nodded, not trusting her voice.
“And then you came here, and peoplesawyou.” Fiona looked around the pavilion — at Stella’s work on the wall, at the space where Mr. Reeves had stood praising her eye. “Tyler saw you. Margo saw you. That teacher saw you. Everyone saw you except the person who was supposed to see you first.”
“It’s not like that?—”
“It’s exactly like that. And I have to live with that.” Fiona’s eyes were wet now, tears spilling over despite her obvious effort to contain them. “I have to live with the fact that my daughter had to come to the other side of the world to find people who could see her properly.”
They stood in the pavilion, mother and daughter, surrounded by proof of everything Fiona had missed.
“I don’t blame you,” Stella said finally. “I was angry. I am angry, sometimes. But I don’t blame you. You were doing your best.”
“My best wasn’t good enough.”
“Maybe not. But it’s what you had.” Stella moved to stand beside her mother, both of them facing the wall. “And I’m here now. Showing you. That counts for something, right?”
Fiona reached out and took her hand. The grip was tight. And warm.
“It counts for everything,” she said.
They stood like that for a long time, holding hands in front of “The Shack Breathes,” not speaking. Festival noise drifted in from outside—laughter, music, the murmur of crowds. Inside the pavilion, it felt like they were the only two people in the world.
Eventually, Fiona let go. Wiped her face. Straightened her shoulders.
“The Bernie triptych,” she said, her voice steadier now. “What was your shutter speed?”
Stella blinked. “What?”
“The shutter speed. You froze his expression perfectly in all three frames. That’s not easy with available light.”
“Oh. Um. 1/500th, I think? I was shooting in burst mode and got lucky with the timing.”
“That’s not luck. That’s instinct.” Fiona studied the photos with new eyes — professional eyes. “The composition is strong, but watch your highlights on the window behind him. Easy fix in post, but better to get it right in camera.”
Stella stared at her mother. This was new. This was Fiona the photographer, not Fiona the worried parent. Giving feedback. Treating her like a colleague.
“I could show you some techniques,” Fiona said cautiously. “If you wanted. Things I’ve learned over the years. Professional tricks.”
