Chapter 3: The Secret Behind the Canvas
For a few seconds, I couldn’t breathe.
“In my old house?””
“Yes.””
I gripped the edge of the table.
“Rachel, what are you talking about?””
She hesitated.
“Mom, I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d be upset.””
“Tell me what?””
The silence on the phone felt heavier than the ocean outside my window.
“Your old storage room.””
My stomach turned.
“What about it?””
“When Dad died, I helped clean it.””
I closed my eyes.
I remembered that room.
The one nobody entered.
The one filled with forgotten boxes.
The one where my old life had been sitting in the dark.
“There were paintings in there,” Rachel said.
My voice came out barely above a whisper.
“My paintings?””
“Yes.””
“Where are they?””
Another pause.
And then:
“I don’t know.””
I felt something crack inside me.
“You don’t know?””
“Mom—”
“No, Rachel. You said you helped clean it.””
“We thought they were old.””
Old.
That word hurt.
Not because the paintings were old.
Because they were mine.
They were pieces of me.
“What happened to them?””
Rachel sighed.
“I think Michael took some things.””
My heart sank.
“Why?””
“He said they were just decorations.””
I stood there in silence.
My son.
My own son.
Had taken pieces of my past and treated them like worthless objects.
“Rachel, did you know about this before?””
“No.””
But something in her voice told me she was hiding something.
“Rachel.””
She didn’t answer.
“Tell me the truth.””
Finally, she whispered:
“Michael sold some of them.””
The room went silent.
I sat down slowly.
“How many?””
“I don’t know.””
“Rachel.””
“Mom, I’m sorry.””
Sorry.
That word.
People always used it after the damage was already done.
I ended the call without saying goodbye.
Then I sat there for a long time.
Not crying.
Not angry.
Just empty.
Because the painting at Arthur’s house was suddenly more than a painting.
It was evidence.
Evidence that I had existed before everyone needed me.
That my dreams had been real.
That I had created something worth keeping.
Later that day, Arthur came by with a bag of pastries.
“I thought you might like company.””
I looked at him.
“I found out my children may have sold my paintings.””
His expression changed immediately.
“What?””
I told him everything.
Arthur listened.
He didn’t interrupt.
When I finished, he said quietly, “That must hurt.””
“It does.””
He sat beside me.
“You know what I find interesting?””
“What?””
“You’re not upset because you lost objects.””
I looked at him.
“You’re upset because someone made you feel like that part of yourself didn’t matter.””
I looked away.
Because he was right.
That night, I called Michael.
He answered casually.
“Hey, Mom.””
“Did you sell my paintings?””
Silence.
A long one.
Then:
“Who told you?””
Not “what paintings?””
Not “what are you talking about?””
Who told you.
My heart sank.
“Did you?””
“Mom, don’t make this a big deal.””
A cold feeling moved through me.
“Those paintings were my life.””
“They were old.””
“They were mine.””
“You weren’t using them.””
I closed my eyes.
That sentence.
You weren’t using them.
As if something only had value if someone else benefited from it.
“Where are they?””
“I don’t know.””
“You sold them.””
“Some.””
“How many?””
“Mom, please.””
“How many?””
He exhaled.
“Most of them.””
I felt tears finally reach my eyes.
“Why?””
“Because we needed money.””
“For what?””
“For the house repairs.””
I laughed softly.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was unbelievable.
The house repairs.
The house I had sold.
The house they all wanted.
“You sold my dreams to fix a house you thought belonged to you?””
“Mom, that’s unfair.””
“No.””
My voice became steadier.
“For the first time in years, I think I’m being completely fair.””
After I hung up, I sat beside the window.
The next morning, Arthur called.
His voice sounded different.
Serious.
“I found something.””
“What?””
“A box.””
My heart stopped.
“What kind of box?””
“A box connected to your painting.””
I stood up.
“Arthur, where did you find it?””
There was a pause.
May you like
Then he said:
“At the back of the old gallery where I bought your painting.””
