Dad called at 3 a.m. “Your apartment building is on fire. Hope you have insurance.”
I started laughing.
He asked, “Why are you laughing? It’s a tragedy.”
I replied, “Because, Dad, that building wasn’t just my home.”
I am Audrey, thirty-two years old, and I spent five years struggling to make it as an artist in New York City. When my phone rang at 3:00 a.m., I never expected it would be my dad telling me my apartment building was on fire.
What shocked him more than the fire was my response. I laughed. Not a nervous chuckle, but full-blown laughter that left him baffled.
How could I laugh at losing everything? The truth is, that building was not just my home. Before I tell you why I laughed at what should have been devastating news, here is the truth.
I grew up in a small Midwestern town called Oakridge, where everybody knew everybody, and dreams stayed as modest as the buildings on Main Street. My parents, especially my dad, Harold, believed in practicality above all else. He was an accountant who measured life in spreadsheets and financial security.
Mom was softer, but ultimately deferred to his judgment. Their vision for me was crystal clear. Accounting degree.
Stable job. Maybe teaching if I was feeling particularly adventurous. But I had been drawing since I could hold a crayon.
My high school art teacher, Mrs. Lel, was the first person who ever told me I had real talent. While my father rolled his eyes at the stack of art school brochures on my desk, she helped me put together a portfolio.
When I got accepted to an art program in New York with a partial scholarship, the battle at home began. “Art does not pay bills, Audrey,” Dad would say, his voice calm but resolute. “Do you know how many talented people end up waiting tables their whole lives?”
Despite their objections, I moved to New York eight years ago with two suitcases and a determination that felt like armor.
That armor thinned quickly when faced with the reality of New York City rent prices. The first year, I bounced between three different shared apartments, each more cramped than the last. I worked two part-time jobs while taking classes and barely had time to actually create art.
Five years ago, I found the building in Brooklyn. Calling it not much to look at would have been a compliment. It was six stories of faded brick, with windows that rattled when trucks passed.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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