“A local artist painted it,” he explained. “She says it represents the peace that comes after the storm.”
“How much does it cost?”
“Two hundred fifty dollars.”
It was more than I had planned to spend, but something in that painting spoke to me. It was like seeing my own transformation reflected in oil.
“I’ll take it.”
On the way back to the house, we hung the painting in the living room. Paula took a step back to admire it.
“It’s perfect for you.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I think so, too.”
That night, I wrote more in my notebook—about the fear I had felt at the beginning, about the guilt I expected to feel but which never came, about discovering that chosen solitude was different from imposed loneliness.
On December 30th, while we were walking on the beach, my phone rang. This time it was a number I did recognize. It was Martin, Amanda’s husband. I hesitated before answering. Then I decided it was time to face this directly.
“Yes?”
“Celia, I need to talk to you.” His voice was serious, almost formal.
“I’m listening.”
“Amanda is devastated. You don’t understand the damage you’ve caused.”
“On the contrary, I understand perfectly the damage I have allowed you all to cause me for years.”
“This isn’t about you. This is about family.”
