Chapter 9
As I walked out of the courthouse, the sun was shining brighter than
ever.
I took a deep breath. I felt lighter and freer than I had felt in years.
There was now enough money in my account to start fresh, and for the first time, my future belonged entirely to me.
I bought a small house. It was nothing extravagant, but warm, mine, and filled with sunlight.
Wanting to keep myself busy, I picked up painting. It was something I had always loved as a kid.
I enrolled in an adult college art program and spent what might have been the happiest chapter of my life there.
Each day, I went to my studio to paint. It faced north, where the sunlight was soft–filtered, like it passed through a veil, falling gently across the canvas.
I liked to arrive early, just to watch that first beam of light crawl slowly up the easel. The dewdrops clinging to my paint tubes would glisten like tiny crystals.
I would press them lightly between my fingers, savoring the coolness. In those moments, it felt like I was holding a piece of the morning in my hand.
I carefully mixed chrome yellow and ochre, trying to capture that warm, lively gold found on sunflower petals.
المصادات ما
My teacher would occasionally stop behind me, commenting that my brushstrokes were too detailed–even the veins of each petal were
drawn out one by one. However, I enjoyed that kind of almost reverent attention to detail, namely the gentle curve of the drooping flower head, the soft glow of morning light passing through the petals‘ edges, and the hidden sunflower seeds tucked in the shadows, waiting quietly to be noticed.
“Your paintings feel like they could be touched,” my teacher once said with a smile.
Sometimes, I painted more personal things.
149 be
One restless night, I found myself sketching a teacup in my notebook. A soft glow of cooled moonlight seemed to rest at the bottom, while fine dust drifted across the tea’s surface, shimmering under the desk lamp like stardust scattered through a quiet galaxy.
Eventually, that teacup turned into a series.
On canvas, I captured teacups at various times of day. In the morning, their rims caught a soft golden hue; in the afternoon, a lone slice of lemon drifted at the top, never quite sinking, on rainy days, the surface of the tea reflected the heavy clouds outside the window.
I never brought these pieces to class. They were like diary entries I did not plan to share.
I did not want to know anything about Collin anymore. However, one day, Giada still called.
“Ma’am, Mr. Whelan hasn’t been well lately.
“He and Ms. Harshaw are no longer together, so he’s been alone since you left.
“He always forgets to eat, and his stomach issues have worsened.
“Ronan’s grades have dropped a lot, too, and he keeps asking when you’ll come back.”
“Giada,” I gently cut her off.
“Thank you for taking care of me before, but please don’t call me ‘Madam‘ anymore, and there’s no need to update me about the Whelan family.”
After hanging up, I exhaled. I truly did not care anymore.
མ མ ནི 1:|:ཀ གང ར མས ཆ ན ཐ
A year later, our graduation exhibit was packed.
My painting “Thorns in the Glass Supper” was tucked in a quiet corner. Under the spotlight, Cinderella’s glass slipper was wrapped in blood- red thorns, its cold gleam casting shadows on the wall.
“This one’s interesting.”
A familiar voice floated over.
1
Sean stood at the edge of the light, holding a large bouquet of sunflowers, the golden petals still beaded with morning dew. He was not wearing his usual suit–just a soft, pale sweater that made him look unusually relaxed.
“Ms. Mackey,” he walked closer, lightly tapping the corner of the frame, “why’d you hide a star inside a patch of thorns?”
I froze.
The little silver star was dusted on with fine powder and tucked into the darkest corner of the painting. Even my teacher had not noticed it.
Sean turned to me, his bouquet brushing my arm.
His eyes sparkled as if they had caught the glint of that tiny hidden star. “So,” he said, smiling, “will you tell me the answer now?”
Two years later, my work had found a little fame.
Some said my paintings were not technically polished, but they carried soul, like they understood life in ways words could not.
I just smiled.
Then one day, I bumped into Collin at a mall.
Oddly enough, Jean was there too. They were mid–argument, and I caught a few words about custody.
A
Off to the side, Ronan stood with his head down.
A moment later, Jean stormed off.
Collin tried to reach for Ronan, but the boy shook him off and shouted, “You both have never cared about me! Giada was always the one who showed up to the parent–teacher meetings! I hate you both! Why did you make Jane leave?”
Collin froze.
Sean, standing beside me, gave me a questioning look.
I calmly looped my arm through his and said, “Let’s go.”
However, they had already seen us.
“Jane…” Collin’s voice cracked with tension.
Sean slid his arm around my waist with practiced ease and smiled. “Mr. Whelan, fancy running into you. But my wife’s pregnant, so we’ll skip the small talk. We’ll see you at the child’s birthday party.”
Collin’s face turned ghostly pale.
I gave Ronan a small nod, ignoring the tears quickly forming in his eyes, and walked away with Sean.
The rose that bloomed out of place will still find its moment to shine. Let those scarred days remain buried beneath the earth, and with its thorns held high, the rose will face the sun in radiant defiance.
