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Chapter 7: The Sketchbook and the Memory It Holds
My father and I were not talking to each other after that day.
And I was avoiding him, too. Not because I was afraid of him, but because I was still mad about what happened. I just don’t understand him.
“Duke?”
One of the housemaids named Susan called me. I turned to her. “Uh?”
“Your milk’s about to spill, honey.” She warned, pertaining to the milk I am pouring on my cereal. I looked at my bowl; the milk is almost near its mouth. I quickly stopped pouring the carton of milk before it spills all over the table. If Father was present, I would have been scolded already.
“Thank you, Nana Susan.”
She gave me a small smile and took an extra bowl from the cupboard above me. She then took my bowl of cereal and transferred the excess milk to the other bowl she got. “You seem to have a lot in mind. What does someone your age think so deeply this early in the morning?” She carefully asked me.
I fell silent. Then I looked at her. “Nana Sus
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