Chapter 8: My Mother's Painting
The following spring, my mother held a small art exhibition at the local gallery.
At eighty-eight, standing to greet guests for several hours was a challenge, but she absolutely refused to sit down. She wore a pale blue silk dress, her white hair neatly pinned up in a bun, and her eyes shone with radiant joy.
The gallery was packed. There were neighbors, readers of Elena’s book, and strangers simply drawn in by the colors on the canvases.
I stood in a corner of the room, holding a glass of wine, quietly watching her.
My mother's paintings had changed drastically over the past ten years. In the early years after we took her away from that house, she only painted in dark tones—gray storms, closed doors, blurry shadows.
But today, the gallery was flooded with light.
She painted the ocean at dawn. She painted her small garden full of hydrangeas. She painted Lily running along the beach with a red kite.
A local art critic stepped up beside me.
"Her paintings have a strange vitality," he remarked. "It's as if she is repainting the world through the eyes of someone newly reborn."
I smiled, looking over at the largest painting placed in the center.
It didn't depict any landscape. Just two hands—one old and wrinkled, the other young and soft—clasping each other tightly amidst a brilliant, golden void.
The title was written carefully below: "Salvation."
I knew whose young hand that was. Elena knew too. When she saw that painting for the first time, she had cried.
That evening, when I brought my mother back to the guest house, I helped her take off her light cardigan.
"You were wonderful today," I said.
May you like
She patted my cheek lightly, a gentle smile blooming on her lips.
"I am only retelling our story, son," she whispered. "Beautiful stories should not remain buried."
