She tried to refuse.
I insisted.
“You’ve done so much for me.”
She smiled.
“Then buy the good coffee. The cheap stuff tastes like burnt socks.”
I laughed.
For the first time in years, I felt useful without feeling controlled.
At the arts center, I met people who had no idea who Brandon was.
They didn’t know about my marriage.
My bruises.
Or the night I’d hidden under a stranger’s desk.
They knew me as Hannah.
The woman who organized supplies.
Remembered everyone’s names.
And sometimes stayed late to paint.
I began teaching a small watercolor class for beginners.
At first, my hands shook whenever people watched me.
But eventually, I learned to enjoy it.
I liked helping someone discover they could create something beautiful.
It felt strangely similar to what I was trying to do with my own life.
One afternoon, Patricia approached while I was cleaning brushes.
“Hannah, someone called asking about commissioning a painting.”
