I stood in front of rows of watercolor sets, staring at colors I hadn’t touched in years.
Blue.
Green.
Gold.
Soft lavender.
Jasmine picked up a simple beginner’s kit.
“This one?”
I laughed weakly.
“I used to have a better set.”
“Then we’ll start with this and work our way up.”
She paid before I could protest.
At home, I painted a small landscape.
A lake beneath a gray sky.
The colors bled into each other.
The trees leaned strangely.
It wasn’t very good.
But when I finished, I sat staring at it.
I’d made something.
Not because Brandon approved.
Not because it served any practical purpose.
Simply because I wanted to.
I cried.
Jasmine found me a few minutes later.
She looked at the painting.
“Hannah, that’s beautiful.”
I laughed through tears.
“It’s crooked.”
“So are most interesting things.”
I hugged her.
The following week, my attorney called.
Brandon had attempted to portray my departure as an impulsive episode caused by emotional distress.
