Chapter 13
The replacement portrait stayed rolled in storage for almost a year.
I forgot about it.
Oliver did not.
One afternoon he found it.
The version without me.
Damon standing center.
Rosalind beside him.
Oliver small between them.
He stared.
“Where Mommy?”
My chest tightened.
“That picture was never finished.”
“Why no Mommy?”
I chose truth.
“Some adults thought I shouldn’t be in it.”
He frowned.
“You live here.”
Excellent logic.
“Yes.”
“Then bad picture.”
“Yes.”
“What do?”
I almost said destroy it.
Stopped.
His choice too, in a small way.
“What do you want?”
He thought.
“Paint Mommy.”
I laughed.
Full circle.
We took out washable paint.
Not the original oils.
Oliver drew a terrible stick figure over the empty side.
Long hair even though mine was short.
Four arms.
One giant red shoe.
Perfect.
“Mommy.”
“Beautiful.”
He beamed.
Then:
“Daddy too?”
Damon was already in the portrait.
Oliver pointed.
“Daddy sad face.”
I almost laughed.
He painted a blue line near Damon’s mouth.
Three-year-old art therapy.
When Damon saw the altered portrait later, he stared.
Then laughed.
Actually laughed.
“You improved me.”
Oliver nodded seriously.
“Sad.”
Damon crouched.
“I was.”
Oliver touched the painted figure.
“Not make Mommy gone.”
“No.”
Damon’s voice broke.
“Never again.”
I watched.
No promise about marriage.
No romantic symbolism.
Just father to son.
Enough.
We never displayed the portrait.
It remained in Oliver’s playroom until he lost interest.
Eventually paper covered it.
Dinosaurs.
May you like
Cars.
Normal childhood replacing adult symbolism one crayon at a time.
