Grandpa never allowed anyone to go into the basement. One day, I realized the door was unlocked. Curious, I went down. I was disappointed at first because it appeared normal.

But I shrieked when I discovered that the walls were covered in artwork. There are plenty of them. I examined the room in complete stillness until I came to a halt in front of one. It was my mother. The next one resembled me. Others I did not recognize.

Later that night, I casually inquired whether he had ever drawn. He shuffled in his chair, murmuring, “Now and then.” I told him I had found the basement. He didn’t say anything for a while.

Finally, he groaned and explained, “I didn’t want anyone to laugh. I’m not an artist. “Just an old man with time to kill.”
I told him the truth: his work was amazing. He became upset, teary-eyed, and stated that no one had ever commended anything he had produced before.