Chapter 2: The Painting From My Forgotten Life
Arthur walked back into the room carrying two cups of coffee.
He stopped when he saw my face.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
The sound of the kettle clicking off in the kitchen was the only noise between us.
“Are you alright?”” he asked.
I turned toward him slowly.
“Where did you get this painting?””
Arthur looked at the artwork above the fireplace.
“That old thing?””
His smile faded slightly.
“I bought it decades ago.””
“Where?””
He placed the coffee cups down.
“At a small gallery.””
“Which gallery?””
He studied me.
“Why?””
I stepped closer to the painting.
Because suddenly I wasn’t in Pelican Reach anymore.
I was twenty-one again.
I was standing in my parents’ backyard with paint under my fingernails.
I was dreaming.
Before life became a list of responsibilities.
“My name is on it,” I whispered.
Arthur frowned.
“What?””
I pointed.
“Look.””
He walked beside me.
The signature was faded, but visible.
My maiden name.
The name I had stopped using after marrying Daniel.
Arthur looked at it.
Then looked at me.
“You painted this?””
I nodded.
“I did.””
He stared at the painting like it had become something entirely different.
“I don’t understand.””
“Neither do I.””
I sat down because my knees suddenly felt weak.
For fifty years, I thought this painting was gone.
Actually, I thought that version of myself was gone.
When I was young, painting was everything.
I had filled notebooks with sketches.
I spent hours outside studying trees, rivers, clouds.
My dream was to attend art school.
My father even saved money for me to go.
Then I met Daniel.
And I fell in love.
Not with someone who stopped me.
Never that.
Daniel loved my paintings.
He would sit beside me while I worked and say, “One day, people will know your name.””
But life happened.
We got married.
Children came.
Bills came.
Responsibilities came.
My paints were packed into boxes.
The boxes went into storage.
And eventually, I forgot about them.
Not because they didn’t matter.
Because everything else seemed to matter more.
“I painted this when I was nineteen,” I said.
Arthur sat across from me.
“Nineteen?””
“Yes.””
He looked back at the painting.
“I’ve owned it for forty years.””
My heart skipped.
“Forty years?””
He nodded.
“I was living overseas then. I walked into a tiny gallery because it started raining. I saw this painting and couldn’t leave without it.””
“Why?””
Arthur smiled softly.
“Because it reminded me of home.””
I looked at the willow tree.
“But you weren’t from here.””
“No.””
“Then what home?””
He shrugged.
“Maybe a home I wished I had.””
That answer stayed with me.
We spent the next hour talking.
Not about the painting.
About everything around it.
Arthur told me he had lost his wife, Margaret, eight years earlier.
“She loved flowers,” he said.
“Our garden was completely out of control because she refused to remove anything that was still growing.””
I laughed.
“That sounds lovely.””
“It was.””
Then he looked at me.
“What about you?””
I told him about Daniel.
About my children.
About selling my house.
About traveling.
I expected judgment.
Instead, Arthur simply said, “Good.””
I blinked.
“Good?””
“Yes.””
“That’s all?””
“That’s all.””
I smiled.
“Most people think I’m selfish.””
Arthur leaned back.
“Most people are uncomfortable when someone stops living according to their expectations.””
The words hit me because they were true.
That evening, I returned to my small rented cottage near the beach.
I sat by the window and watched the waves.
For years, I had believed my younger self was someone I had lost forever.
But that painting was proof.
She had been waiting.
The next morning, I received a message from Rachel.
The first one in almost two months.
My heart jumped.
I opened it.
“Mom, we need to talk.””
I stared at the screen.
Then another message appeared.
“It's about the house.””
My stomach tightened.
Because I knew Rachel.
She never said “we need to talk” when she wanted to apologize.
She said it when she wanted something.
I called her.
She answered after three rings.
“Mom.””
“Rachel.””
There was a pause.
“I heard something.””
“What?””
“About the painting.””
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What about it?””
“Where did you get it?””
I looked toward the living room wall where I had placed a photograph of the painting I had taken before leaving Arthur’s house.
“How do you know about it?””
Rachel was quiet.
Too quiet.
Then she said something that made my blood run cold.
“Because, Mom… I’ve seen that painting before.””
I stood up.
“Where?””
May you like
Her voice dropped.
“In your old house.””
