Paintings lined the walls. Canvases covered the floor. Every single one depicted me — distorted, suffocating, trapped. In one, I sat behind bars made of gold. In another, my mouth was open in a scream no one could hear. One showed me lifeless, surrounded by wealth that meant nothing.
My chest tightened. I stepped back, shaken.
That evening, I confronted her.
She didn’t deny it. She didn’t yell. She simply broke down.
She told me the paintings weren’t hatred — they were grief. Anger. Loss projected onto the only symbol left that her mind could grasp: abundance. Stability. Me.
It didn’t matter. I was hurt. And fear has always been my fastest decision-maker.
I asked her to leave.
The drive to the shelter the next morning felt longer than it should have. Before she stepped out, I gave her an envelope. She didn’t open it. She didn’t need to.
Weeks passed. The house returned to its former quiet — but it no longer felt peaceful. It felt empty.
Then a package arrived.
