I felt my stomach clench.
—When I received the grant, I used his last name for a while. Then, when I founded the gallery, I went back to my own. Not to honor him… but to close the book on him.
I swallowed.
“Ethan, I…”
He interrupted me with a gesture.
“I didn’t come here to hear apologies.”
—So… why did you ask me to come?
Her gaze softened slightly.
“Because I want to show you something else.”
She took out one last painting, covered with a black cloth. She slowly lifted it.
It was a portrait.
Of me.
Exactly as I looked the day I kicked him out: a hard face, empty eyes, the shadow of a door closing behind me.
But next to that figure, painted with an almost invisible stroke, was an outstretched hand. Mine.
He wasn’t touching the child, but he was there, as if he could still reach him.
“I never finished this painting,” Ethan said. “I painted it for years, trying to understand if at that time it hated me… or was just broken.”
I remained silent. Tears began to fall unbidden.
“I didn’t know you could paint,” I murmured.
He smiled sadly.
“You didn’t know how to love either. I suppose we both learned late.”