The morning sun slipped through the curtains of my hotel room, casting a gentle warmth across the bed. I lay still, breathing deeply into the silence that was now mine.
Then, my phone rang. Lorenzo.
“Joyce,” he said, his voice bright and playful, “I have something exciting for you. We’re having a small gallery event tonight. The collectors who bought your pieces will be there. I thought… maybe you’d want to meet them?”
I smiled before I could stop myself. “Me? Meet buyers? I don’t know…”
“Come on. It’s your work they’re celebrating. Plus, I’ll be there. You won’t be alone.”
I hesitated, but only for a moment. “Alright. I’ll come.”
That evening, I wore a soft beige dress, one I had bought years ago and never had the courage to wear. My heart fluttered as I stepped into the gallery, but the moment I saw Lorenzo’s grin, I relaxed.
He walked me around, introducing me to people who shook my hand with genuine admiration.
“Your brushwork is so fluid,” one woman said. “There’s so much emotion.”
“I felt like your painting understood me,” another added.
Ldidn’t know how to respond. I had never been praised like this before. For years, I was invisible. A silent presence moving behind the scenes. And now… people saw me. Later, as we stood by the window, sipping wine, Lorenzo turned to me. “Joyce, I’ve been thinking. We’re planning to start a series of live art sessions in the gallery–to draw people in, quite literally.” He winked. “Would you be interested? You’d paint right there while. visitors watch.”
My eyes widened. “Oh… I don’t know. I’ve never done something like that before.”
He leaned in, his voice softer. “You’re incredible, Joyce. Don’t hide anymore. Just try. Something in his eyes gave me the courage I didn’t know I had. I nodded slowly. “Okay. I’l do it.”
The first time I stood in front of the blank canvas with eyes on me, I felt my palms sweat. But then I glanced at Lorenzo, who gave me a subtle nod. I picked up the brush, and the world melted away. With each stroke, I found a rhythm. I found myself.
By the time I finished, people clapped. A few even asked for photos with the painting.
I smiled, cheeks flushed. For the first time in years, I was proud of who I was.
After the event, Lorenzo walked me back to my hotel. We talked and laughed–about art, about books, about everything–we used to dream about in college.
“You know,” he said as we reached the hotel door, “if you ever want to work in the nallery full–time, I’d love to have you. As a resident artist–or even a curator. Your
remarkable.”
My Husband of Twenty–Five Years Married My Cousin
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I blinked. “Really? You’d trust me with that?”
He laughed. “Joyce. I’d trust you with the whole gallery if I could.”
I smiled, heart warm. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good. Take your time. I’ll be waiting.”
That night, back in my room, I unpacked my paints and canvas. With no one watching, no one criticizing, I painted until dawn. My fingers moved freely, guided only by emotion. It wasn’t just art. It was healing.
In the morning, I stared at the finished piece, heart full.
I picked up the phone and called Lorenzo.
“I’ll take the job,” I said. “I want to curate. And I’ll keep supplying new pieces too.”
“Joyce,” he said, his voice breathless with excitement, “you just made my week.”
Later that day, I walked into the gallery as its newest curator. Lorenzo welcomed me with a bouquet of sunflowers–my favorite. I didn’t even remember telling him that.
“What’s all this?” I asked, touched.
“It’s a surprise,” he said, grinning. “For someone who deserves it.”
I blinked rapidly, trying to keep tears from spilling.
“You really think I deserve this?” I whispered.
He took my hand gently. “I know you do.”
I nodded, voice low. “I need this job… because I want to save enough money.”
“For what?” he asked curiously.
I laughed. “To go on a cruise.”
He raised an eyebrow. “A cruise? What for? Didn’t your ex just-?”
“Yes,” I interrupted with a smile. “But this time, it’ll be my cruise. I’m going to get married.”
Lorenzo blinked. “Wait… you’re seeing someone already?”
I laughed harder, the sound light and real. “No. I’m marrying myself.
His jaw dropped slightly, then curved into a slow, crooked grin..
“Well,” he said, taking a step closer, “if that’s the plan… how about a new one?”
“What do you mean?”
He leaned in, teasing. “How about you skip the solo ceremony and just ma, me instead?”
