"Make her hair pretty Daddy! More flowers!" came the giggles of childlike excitement.
"Alright sweetheart, I'll do my best," was the amused reply of a doting father.
Sat at the dining table of their small coastal home, Bard Bowman attempted to decorate a lunch box, at the insistence of its owner, his eight year old daughter, Tilda. She had found, during the course of her last week of summer holidays before returning to school, that her fancy for Hannah Montana had been replaced by Disney's Tangled. Armed with a cheap set of acrylic paints, he had successfully recreated her favourite princess and was now adding some finishing touches.
Bard loved to paint, but he loved when his paintings made his children smile even more. He made no pretenses that he was a great artist - by his own estimation his talents were mediocre at best - but he always received such encouragement and beseechment from his daughters that he continued in his pursuit. Being the practical, level-headed man that he was, he often scolded himself for wasting his time painting and would be hard pressed to admit that, despite his lack of confidence, he was rather good at it. He had once been known to paint beautiful cards for his wife on special occasions, covered in studies of her favourite wild flowers, or little birds or some other romantic symbol but, after her untimely passing, it took many years before he could hold a paintbrush again. At first he had thought it betrayed her memory in some way but, seeing the delight his painting brought to his children, he worked past his painful memory. In no small way, it had been a method of healing for him and he could hold some joy in that.
As he added the final tiny daisy to the princess' long plait, his eldest daughter, Sigrid, entered the kitchen.
"What's that, Da?" she smiled, moving to stand behind him.
"Da did my lunch box!" exclaimed Tilda, excitedly, "He put Rapunzel on it! See? She's my favourite! And he did all the flowers and the lights and everything! Look-"
"Careful there, darlin', you don't want wet paint on your dress," Bard smiled fondly, moving the box out of her reach, "And where have you been, might I ask?" he turned to Sigrid, who smiled.
"Just down at the beach with some friends. We were collecting shells and skimming stones," She held out a plastic bag full of various, sand-covered shells.
"Hmm, well, I hope you remember what I taught you about the tides?" Bard folded his arms.
"Fast moving, in and out twice a day, don't go too far out, I know, Da," Sigrid rolled her eyes.
Bard huffed, fully aware that, while his eldest daughter was level and steady, he could not say the same about the sea that lapped less than a mile from their home. He was a single dad, after all; he had to worry enough for two parents.
"Oh, by the way Da," Sigrid said, sitting down in the vacant chair beside him, "I saw this pasted on a board in town. I thought I should show it to you," she removed a folded up piece of paper from her back pocket.
Bard smoothed it out on the table and read, before looking up at his daughter with an eyebrow raised.
"An art exhibition? And just what would I want with an art exhibition?"
"Oh, c'mon Da!" Sigrid huffed, flopping down into an empty chair, "This could be great for you! You're such a brilliant artist-"
"I am not a-"
"-and people would love to see your work! Who knows, you might find a buyer!"
"I doubt-"
"-and it's not as if the exhibition is far away. It's in the town galleries. Oh, please Da! Please show something at it!" Sigrid begged, doing her best to sell the opportunity to her skeptical father.
Bard looked down at the paper, thinking about what it would mean to show his work. He hadn't painted seriously in so many years. And he was a complete novice at exhibiting his work. What would he even show? He'd have to create a new piece…
"Sigrid, I don't know…"
"Da, we're all so proud of you. We just want you to be proud of yourself," his daughter leaned towards him, and patted his arm.
It would take a great deal of courage for him to do this but, damn it, he could never say no to his children.
"...Alright. I'll see what I can do,"
Sigrid threw her arms around him and thanked him while Tilda bounced excitedly in her seat, her lunchbox drying in her lap.
As soon as he had managed to shepherd the children out of his way, he entered his bedroom and, from underneath his bed, he pulled out a dust-coated wooden case. He coughed as he blew off the signs of time and, upon opening the box, was filled with a familiar warm feeling that he had not felt for years. As he looked down upon his fine brushes, shining palette knives and crumpled tubes of paint, it was like seeing an old friend again. Allowing himself a small smile, he plucked a brush from its pouch and sighed,
"Looks like I'm going to need a new canvas,"