After what happened at the gallery–the confrontation, the hands yanking me from my art, the headlines and whispers–I couldn’t bring myself to go outside again.
Not for a while.
I stayed inside the little apartment above the gallery Lorenzo had set up for me. Curtains drawn. Phone silenced. Every tap on the screen brought another flood of messages, pings, article links, gossip, fake news. “Ex–wife caught having affair with gallery owner.” “Scorned husband demands justice.” “Family torn by betrayal.”
People loved to talk, especially when it wasn’t their pain.
I had never wanted attention. I only wanted freedom.
But even that came with a price.
I felt embarrassed. Exposed. Like someone had peeled me raw in front of the world and left me there to bleed. I wasn’t strong enough to face the public–not yet. I wasn’t ready. But Lorenzo–he never left.
Not once.
He brought me meals. Sat beside me while I stared at blank canvases. Talked to me about nothing just to keep me breathing. And when I broke down one night and told him I regretted the photo that started it all, he cupped my face and said, “No. I don’t regret it. I won’t let them twist your truth.”
He meant it, too. A few days later, every article mysteriously disappeared. Online attacks. were buried beneath countersuits and legal threats. Lorenzo had “taken care of it,” he told me. I didn’t ask how. I just believed him.
And the gallery? It waited for me. The walls were bare in the corners where my art once. lived. The studio was silent, missing the sound of my brush against canvas.
But still, Bradley lingered.
He sent letters. Flowers. One time, a box of my favorite paints. No–name attached, but I knew it was him. Each package was followed by a warning: “Talk to me, or I’ll come find you.”
I didn’t respond.
Until one day–weeks after I had disappeared from the gallery–I stepped inside again. The scent of oil paint and wood polish hit me like a memory. The space was quiet. Still.
I had come in early to begin again. To reclaim what was mine. I was halfway through organizing a canvas when I heard the bell above the door chime.
Footsteps followed.
I turned, expecting a customer.
It was Mateo.
My son.
Chunlar 16
19:55 501, 24 May I didn’t respond.
Until one day–weeks after I had disappeared from the gallery–I stepped inside again)
The scent of oil paint and wood polish hit me like a memory. The space was quiet. Still.
I had come in early to begin again. To reclaim what was mine. I was halfway through organizing a canvas when I heard the bell above the door chime.
Footsteps followed.
I turned, expecting a customer.
It was Mateo.
My son.
He stood in the middle of the gallery, arms crossed, jaw tight, looking older than he should. There was no warmth in his eyes–just confusion. Disappointment.
“Mom,” he said. “We need to talk.”
I stayed still, unsure whether to run or brace myself.
He stepped forward. “What are you doing? You’re ruining everything.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’re destroying the family’s image. This gallery thing, the photos, the drama with Dad. You cheated.”
I flinched. “What did you just say?”
“You heard me,” he said. “You’re with another man. You embarrassed us. People talk, Mom. They talk about you like you’re some homewrecker.”
The words stung sharper than I expected.
I steadied my voice. “I didn’t wreck any home. That home broke me long before I left it.”
Mateo scoffed. “You left us. You walked out. And now what? You think people won’t notice you’re sleeping around with some guy?”
That did it.
The dam broke.
“You have no right to talk to me like this,” I snapped, stepping toward him, voice trembling. “You–who stood beside Maine when your own mother was humiliated. You–who watched me be treated like dirt for twenty–five years and never said a word.”
“Mom-”
“No!” I said louder. “You don’t get to play the victim. You liked Maine more than me. You defended her. You never once asked how I was doing. Not when your father forgot my birthday. Not when he shoved me in front of strangers. Not when he paraded her around like a trophy. You stood there and let it happen.”
He stared at me, stunned.
Η
“You didn’t lose me, Mateo,” I whispered. “You gave me away.”
His voice cracked. “I just want you to come home.”
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19:55 500, 24 May
I steadied my voice. “I didn’t wreck any home. That home broke me long before I left it.”
Mateo scoffed. “You left us. You walked out. And now what? You think people won’t notice. you’re sleeping around with some guy?”
That did it.
The dam broke.
“You have no right to talk to me like this,” I snapped, stepping toward him, voice trembling. “You–who stood beside Maine when your own mother was humiliated. You–who watched me be treated like dirt for twenty–five years and never said a word.”
“Mom-”
“No!” I said louder. “You don’t get to play the victim. You liked Maine more than me. You defended her. You never once asked how I was doing. Not when your father forgot my birthday. Not when he shoved me in front of strangers. Not when he paraded her around like a trophy. You stood there and let it happen.”
He stared at me, stunned.
“You didn’t lose me, Mateo,” I whispered. “You gave me away.”
His voice cracked. “I just want you to come home.”
“That’s not my home anymore,” I said, and tears welled in my eyes.
“I miss you,” he said. “Dad… we all do.”
I opened my mouth, but before I could respond, Lorenzo stepped through the side door.
“She’s not coming back,” he said calmly, stepping beside me.
Mateo’s face twisted in anger. “Who asked you?”
“I did,” I cut in, my voice firm.
“You’re really going to let him speak for you?” Mateo said. “What is he to you anyway?”
“My future,” I said.
Mateo turned to Lorenzo. “You think you can just take her? That’s my mother.”
Lorenzo didn’t flinch. “And I’m the man who stood by her when no one else did.”
“You’re disgusting,” Mateo snapped. “She’s married–was married. You knew that.”
“I also knew she was abused. Neglected. Forgotten,” Lorenzo shot back.
Mateo’s jaw clenched. “You’re such an evil mother,” he whispered. “Dad was right. Maine is better than you.”
And then–he walked out.
Just like that.
And I collapsed onto the bench, my legs trembling, my heart ripped open.
Evil. That’s what he called me. After everything.
Tears ran freely down my cheeks.
“I’m sorry” I whicnered to no one “I tried really tried ”
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Bradley was fuming. Again.
Chapter 18
