Chapter 22N
The bristles dragged across the canvas, leaving a wash of pale blue behind. My hand trembled at first, but as the strokes gathered, the silence of the room filled with something I hadn’t felt in years–life.N
It had been so long since I painted that I almost didn’t recognize myself in the act. The smell of turpentine clung to the air, the way it used to when Leandro and I would spend hours in the university studio, teasing each other about colors and technique..
He used to love it. Or maybe I just convinced myself he did.N
My chest tightened as the memory unfolded–another lifetime ago, when we were still in love, when dreams were bigger than reality.
I was bent over a canvas, my hair tied messily back, smudges of green across my wrist. Leandro leaned against the easel opposite mine, his brow furrowed, brush in hand.
“You blend too much,” he teased, stepping closer to inspect. “You make everything soft, Emerald. The world isn’t soft.”
I shot him a playful glare. “And you make everything sharp, like it’s a weapon. Not every painting has to cut someone to
matter.”
He chuckled, dropping a quick kiss on my temple before stepping back. “Maybe that’s why we balance each other. You paint feelings, I paint edges. Together, it works.“\
I smiled then, believing him. Believing us.
But the tone shifted weeks later when business entered his world. His late nights, his endless calls. And one evening, when I placed my brushes aside to bring him dinner, he looked at me with an impatience that still stings.
“Emerald, you don’t have to waste time with that anymore,” he said, gesturing to the half–finished canvas leaning by the wall.”
“Waste?” I asked, blinking. “It’s not a waste. It’s what I love.”
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Love doesn’t pay the bills. Do you really think painting is going to build our future? If you want to help me, support the company. Focus on me, on us. The art–leave it behind.“\
I had swallowed hard, my throat burning with words I couldn’t say. I wanted to fight him, to argue that not everything had to be about profit, about gain. But I saw the determination in his eyes, the same determination I thought was for us, and sol nodded.
And that night, I packed away my paints.
“Can I try, Mama?” Gwen’s voice pulled me back.
I turned and found her standing on tiptoe, eyes wide with excitement. She was already wearing one of Martin’s old shirts as an apron, sleeves rolled past her elbows.
“Of course, sweetheart,” I said, lifting her onto the stool beside me. “Here, hold it like this.”
Her tiny fingers gripped the brush awkwardly at first, leaving a streak of yellow across the canvas. She frowned. “It looks messy.”
I kissed her temple. “Messy can still be beautiful. Just like life.“}
She tilted her head, considering that, then giggled. “Okay, then I want mine to be really, really messy!”
Before I knew it, Gwen was painting suns, stick figures, hearts, and flowers across her own sheet of paper. Her laughter filled the studio, brighter than any color on my palette.
Watching her, I felt something loosen in me. This was what Emerald-the real me–had always wanted. Not riches. Not power. Just love. A family.
Martin appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his arms crossed and a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Well, looks like I’m the only one in this family without talent,” he teased.”
“You could try,” I said, arching an eyebrow.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Or I could just admire you from here. You, with paint on your fingers and light in your eyes–Emerald, I swear, this is the happiest I’ve ever seen you.”
Heat crept to my cheeks, but before I could answer, Gwen interrupted. “Daddy Martin! Come paint with us!“}
He blinked, startled by the title, and then his grin widened, almost boyish. “Well, if the princess insists…”
The three of us painted together that afternoon. Gwen’s laughter, Martin’s jokes, and my own quiet joy blended into something I hadn’t felt in years–peace.
Days later, the wedding preparations began. I had never imagined planning another wedding, yet this time it was different. It wasn’t about appearances or power. It was about love, about finally being chosen.
Gwen, of course, declared herself the official “wedding designer.“”
“I’ll pick the flowers,” she said seriously, spreading her drawings across the table. “And I’ll throw the petals when you walk
down the aisle. I’ll make it beautiful, Mama, just like you.”
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down the aisle. I’ll make it beautiful, Mama, just like you.”
I gathered her close, fighting the tears that threatened. “You already make everything beautiful, Gwen.”
Martin chuckled, flipping through her doodles. “So, no say for me? Guess I’ll just show up in whatever suit you two decide.“” Gwen pointed at him sternly. “You need to wear blue. Because Mama likes blue. And no funny shoes.””
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, mock saluting her, earning a fit of giggles.”
We spent afternoons shopping, Gwen twirling through racks of tiny dresses while Martin carried bags like a dutiful partner. In the evenings, we’d return to the studio, painting side by side until our eyelids grew heavy. The wedding talk filled our days with laughter, with hope.
One night, after another long day of planning, the three of us sprawled across the bed. Gwen lay in the middle, clutching her stuffed bear, her eyelids drooping as she hummed softly to herself. Martin’s arm rested around my waist, pulling me close. “Are you happy?” he murmured.\
I turned my head to face him, brushing a strand of hair from Gwen’s forehead. “For the first time in a long time… yes. I am.” He pressed a kiss to my temple. “Good. Because I plan to keep it that way.“”
Silence settled, soft and golden, broken only by the steady rhythm of Gwen’s breathing. Slowly, her little hand slipped into mine, her grip slack but trusting.”
I glanced at Martin. His eyes were already closed, his chest rising and falling in time with hers.
The three of us, tangled together in warmth, in love, in something new and fragile yet whole. I closed my eyes, whispering a silent prayer of gratitude.”
For the first time in years, I felt home.
And in that moment, beneath the blanket of night, the world outside no longer mattered. Only us. Always us.
