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keep things fair. Gemma complained because she didn’t want me to get a present for doing nothing. Mom still bought stuffed bears for both of us, but she also bought Gemma an expensive dollhouse, in spite of not really being able to afford it after the cost of the trip itself.
    I’d hated Gemma that day. I was jealous of her and ashamed I hadn’t done anything special. I resented Mom for putting Gemma first, yet again. I remembered walking away from the Kid’s Market and looking into the shop windows farther down the lane. Art supplies and finished works made me ache for the chance to make something myself. I badly wanted to believe I had the potential to create beauty.
    For Christmas a few months later, Gemma’s gift to me was a watercolor paint set. She’d remembered how I’d gushed over the arts community on Granville Island. She apologized for being a brat that day and told me she thought I would make a wonderful artist.
    Over a decade later, Granville Island made me feel much the same way, without the taint of resentment. I wanted to get off the bus and wander the artists’ studios and gift shops, but I remembered where Gemma would be today and I stayed in my seat. Gemma was my only remaining connection to Mom.
    The bus carried on through the hipster strip along West Broadway Avenue, passing upscale brands, designer consignment boutiques, and skateboard shops between bistros and brewpubs. Our route turned into a green space of carefully manicured lawns and lush forest. I saw a street sign for University Boulevard. We passed a golf clubhouse and entered a carefully crafted city inside the forest.
    As the bus made a U-turn, I saw the library from my vision shining in the sun northward along a crossroad. I hopped off the bus as soon as it stopped and walked briskly along Gemma’s route home. I snapped up a copy of the student paper from a small self-serve newsstand along the way.
    I reached Gemma’s building and kept walking past it, across the lawn and into the parking lot. I found a bench and got comfortable. I carefully positioned my newspaper so I could see over the top while concealing my face, allowing me to watch the door somewhat inconspicuously.
    I waited. And waited. My stomach settled and my pulse slowed. I read a few articles in the paper while keeping one eyeball on the door. I lowered the paper, looked around, flipped the page, read more, and repeated the cycle. It occurred to me I might become conspicuous simply by sitting on the bench too long. Had anyone exiting Gemma’s building entered after I had first sat down? My phone told me that over an hour had passed. Should I venture into the building and hope for a new vision?
    I stared at the door, considering making a move when a man wearing a familiar pale blue shirt and metallic slate slacks exited the building. His face was covered in dark scabbing scrapes from his forehead down to his chin in a ruinous swipe. The arm below his wounds had the sleeve rolled up to accommodate a plaster cast.
    The injured man looked at his other wrist checking his watch as a woman in a black pantsuit joined him on the curb. I recognized her long dark ironed hair immediately. Tatiana! I knew the injured man before he turned to speak. The clean unhurt side of Ivan’s face shifted into view, his expression cold and hard as ever. Ilya was right! Our father lived!
    The pair paused on the corner in front of the building. Ivan surveyed the lawn and the parking lot while Tatiana examined her phone. Ivan pointed towards the parking lot and stepped out onto the road.
    Shit! Why had I come alone? Could Ivan hear me? Sense me? See me? Ivan kept walking into the parking lot and disappeared behind the frame of a SUV. Tatiana followed him, still looking at the screen in her hand.
    My whole body flexed. I shifted in my seat, frantic for some sign of where Ivan and Tatiana had gone. Ivan’s silver Audi rumbled into view behind the parked cars ahead of me. He turned at the end of