Flashback…

"Shawn, what's this I hear about you refusing to go to one of your classes today?"

Shawn Spencer sighed and glared into his cereal bowl, the cute brown freckles on his suntanned face completing the pouty-effect. Maybe, just maybe, if he got the pout just right his father would forget and maybe even take him out to get ice cream – the double mint chocolate kind with pistachios and super Fudge Drizzle.

'Shawn?"

Fat chance. Shawn sighed again, "Dad, I didn't refuse to go to class, I just peacefully protested against the unfair abuse of having to walk half a mile from one class to another."

"By throwing pencils at your teacher? I don't think so, kid." His father took off his officer's cap and sat down next to him, fixing him with a penetrating gaze. "Shawn, why didn't you go to art class?" Shawn sighed.

"Remember that day when I missed school the day that we were signing up for next year's recreational classes? Well, Mrs. Migilligen had to pick mine for me and she put me in stinkin' art with all of the girls."

"So?"

"So? Dad, I can't be in a class with all girls! Everybody's going to make fun of me. And besides, art isn't for boys."

"Really? Art isn't for boys?" his father paused, licking his teeth with a thoughtful look on his face. Shawn knew to be wary of the thoughtful looks, "Shawn, come here."

The two got up and Shawn followed his father through the hall to the basement. No matter how many times he and Gus had come down here to swap his father's cooler looking tools or launch secret clubs against the disposal of the soda machine in school, Shawn still got the heebie-jeebies every time the cold, musty air hit his face. His father, on the other hand, seemed unfazed. On the contrary he marched through the damp, dark space; brushing aside cobwebs and unsettling dust until, in a matter of seconds, the whole basement was a tornado of cloudy air and scuttling spiders. Shawn coughed.

"Dad, what are we doing here?"

"I want you to come look at this." Mr. Spencer flicked on the dusty yellow light switch and then, with a dramatic flourish, swept a theatre-purple cloth from an enormous object in the corner. Shawn gasped.

"Dad, is that really – "

"Yes. It's your mother. I painted it quite a while back when I had first met your mother. It won an award in six states. Six states, mind you, at the age of eighteen." Shawn wasn't listening to a word that is father was saying. He ran a finger along his mother's face and took in the mysterious and comforting smile that he was once so used to. He turned to his father.

"You did really paint this?"

"That's what I just said, kiddo." His father tried to mask his pride with a note of annoyance but it didn't work. He smiled.

"So does this mean that I might paint like you one day?"

"Maybe. If you practice hard and –" Shawn screamed and ran up the stairs.

"Sh-Shawn!"

A few seconds later, Mr. Spencer heard the sound of his son running across the street and screaming about how he was going to grow up and be the world's worst painter.