Chapter 7
“Give it a try. Your paintings deserve to be seen by more people,” Jay said.
That night, I painted alone.
A seascape began to take form on the canvas, the faint blush of dawn illuminating the sky above the water. The shimmering surface mirrored my reflection.
As I laid down the final stroke, I realized something. This painting wasn’t for him, nor for anyone else. It was for myself.
On the day of the exhibition, my work garnered high praise from the judges. The talent I had buried for years finally emerged into the light once again.
I thought this was merely a step forward, a small part of rebuilding my life. What I didn’t expect was how this “return” would shatter the fragile calm I had painstakingly built.
One day, during a lesson, I was explaining color combinations to the children. The sunlight filtered through the windows,
enveloping the room in a warm tranquility. The kids painted quietly, their small hands moving carefully over the paper. The
peace felt rare and precious.
Then the door burst open.
“Tracy Willow!”
I looked up, startled, and froze.
It was Camille. She stormed in, her pregnant belly preceding her. Her face was pale and twisted with rage.
Step by step, she approached, her eyes wild and unrelenting. “I knew it! There was no way you could actually be dead! You ruined me, and here you are hiding in this little corner!”
Frowning, I stepped in front of the children, shielding them from her fury. My voice was cold. “Camille, how did you find me?”
She smiled mockingly. “How did I find you? Do you think I wouldn’t recognize your style? All those years, teachers always said your work was better than mine. I’ve stared at it long enough to memorize every little detail.”
She sneered, her voice dripping with scorn. “You used an anonymous name for that competition, but it only took one look for me
to know it was your work!”
A chill ran through me as old memories surfaced unbidden–moments of humiliation, times when she had trampled me underfoot, now brought back to life as if tearing open wounds I thought had long healed.
“If you recognized it, then you know who drew it,” I said evenly, my tone edged with sarcasm. “And yet you still dare to show your face here?”
Her face darkened, fury flashing through her eyes. Her voice turned into a venomous hiss. “Tracy, you witch!”
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the fork another step closer, her eyes blazing with hatred. “Do you think winning one competition means you’ve turned things around? Keep dreaming!”
Ignoring her firade, I stayed firm, my arms protectively around the children behind me.
“If you have something to say, we can discuss it elsewhere”
“Elsewhere?” She let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “As if I’d let you off that easily! Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?
My paintings were pulled, my awards revoked, and my parents want nothing to do with me! Even
