“Elara.” He pulled me into his arms, holding me longer than I expected. When he stepped back, he studied me from head to toe. “You have lost weight. Your skin… too pale. Tell me, what did that man do to you?”
I looked away, forcing a weak smile. “We just drifted apart, Abuelo. That’s all.”
He frowned. “No me mientas. You think I do not know the look of a woman who has suffered?”
I had no answer. My throat burned, but I swallowed the truth. Not tonight.
That evening, after dinner, I wandered into my old art studio. The air smelled faintly of dust and turpentine. White sheets covered the easels and tables. I pulled one back and revealed an unfinished painting... the strokes rough, colors half-blended. My hands tingled just looking at it.
I touched the edge of the canvas. Four years gone. Four years I gave up painting, gave up myself, so I could cook his meals and wait for him to come home— only for him to choose someone else.
My fingers curled into fists.
Not anymore.
