He found a key in his pocket that unlocked a door he had never seen before.
On the other side of the door was a painter’s studio; at that moment, Martín realized that his father had prepared that surprise for him.
For years he had been convinced that his father was forcing him to follow in his footsteps, and that day when he drew a portrait for his 60th birthday and confessed to him in private that he really wanted to be an artist had meant nothing to him.
But before he died, on his deathbed, he put the key in my pocket, knowing I would go into the studio. He prepared all of that for him; he always believed in Martín’s dream, he just never knew how to let him know.
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