The Enigmatic Painting
Emily sat in the back seat of the car, gazing out the window. Her spirits were lifted, as if it were the eve of a holiday—like Christmas or her birthday. But her birthday was in December, and now it was July.
Behind the wheel sat a stern, burly man. All she could see was his shaved neck, thick and unyielding. His posture was stiff, his head never turning, as though his bulk didn’t allow it. The girl thought he might not be human at all but some kind of robot. She even leaned forward, trying to catch his face in the rearview mirror.
“Sit back!” the driver snapped without turning.
Emily flopped onto the seat and turned back to the window. Fields, woods, and little villages flashed by. They overtook two cyclists—a man and a teenager—who glanced at her through the glass. Her mood brightened again. This was her first trip to another town, to grandparents she’d never met.
“How much longer?” she asked.
“Not long,” her mother answered from the front.
“Why didn’t we visit them before?”
Her mother mumbled something unclear.
“Is there a river there?”
“Yes. There’s everything there. Enough questions. You’ll see for yourself when we arrive.” Irritation sharpened her mother’s voice.
Emily fell silent. Lately, her mother lost patience over the smallest things. It had started after Dad left, packing his things one day and walking out.
*Maybe this is a holiday,* Emily thought. *Mum packed so much—even my favourite toys. Even my schoolbag. Why bring a schoolbag on holiday?* Questions swirled, but she didn’t dare ask them.
Leaning back, she began humming softly—one note, then another.
“Stop whining! You’re giving me a headache,” her mother snapped. Emily scowled but quieted.
Soon, they entered the town. Emily pressed against the window again as the car stopped outside a two-storey brick house.
“Here we are. Home, sweet home,” her mother said, flinging the door open. But there was no joy in her voice—only resignation.
The house was old and grey, with two entrances and no yard, no colourful plastic slide or swings like back home. Just two benches by the doors.
The driver unloaded their bags onto the pavement and stared at the building. Mum asked him to wait, grabbed the luggage, and headed for the door. Emily scurried after. The door was wooden, peeling brown paint, not steel with a code lock.
“Open it,” her mother said impatiently.
Emily rushed forward and pulled the creaking door wide. They climbed to the second floor. Her mother set the suitcase down on the concrete floor to press the bell, but the door swung open before she could. A tall, severe woman stood there, silent, watching them.
Mum lifted the case and stepped inside. Emily followed, pressing close to her side. She realised the woman must be her grandmother.
“Well? Come in,” the woman said, not warmly.
Emily didn’t move, glued to her mother. A tall, grey-haired man appeared from the room.
“This is your grandfather, William,” her mother said quietly. “Here are her clothes, toys, shoes…”
“We’ll manage,” her grandmother replied curtly. “Aren’t you even staying for tea?”
“No, the taxi’s waiting,” Mum said.
Suddenly, Emily understood—her mother was leaving her here. She grabbed her arms, pleading frantically:
“Mum! Don’t go! Don’t leave me here—take me with you!”
“You didn’t tell her?” her grandmother accused.
Mum didn’t answer. She pried Emily’s fingers away, but the girl clung tighter.
“I’ll come back for you. Stay with your grandparents for now. That’s enough!” Mum finally tore free and pushed her back.
Grandmother’s arms wrapped around Emily, holding her close. She writhed, twisting like a snake.
“Go! Just go!” Grandmother snapped, and Mum slipped out the door.
“Mum! Let me go!” Emily cried—but she was already gone.
“Emily,” came her grandfather’s calm voice.
She froze, staring up at him in fear—but he smiled. His eyes were kind, curious.
“Come along,” he said, taking her hand and leading her inside.
The room was old-fashioned but cosy—a sofa, a piano against the wall, the quiet tick of a clock. Later, they drank tea with pancakes. The best pancakes Emily had ever tasted. After, Grandmother took her outside where two girls played near the door. She left Emily with them and went back in.
“Are you living here now?” one asked.
“No. My mum’s coming back for me soon,” Emily said firmly—but her eyes stung treacherously.
September came, and Mum never returned. Emily started school—same class as the two girls, Year 2B. Strangely, she liked living with her grandparents. They never argued, never shouted—unlike her parents.
Lately, her parents had only screamed at each other. Then Dad left. Mum started going out most evenings. Sometimes Emily thought she’d never come back—so she’d stand at the window, straining her eyes in the dark until a taxi pulled up. Then she’d scramble into bed, heart pounding with relief. *She came back.*
She missed Mum at first, waiting endlessly—until she stopped. Grandmother only said once that Mum was “sorting out her life.” Emily grew up without worry. In Year 8, Grandmother fell ill and died. It was the first time she’d seen a grown man cry.
She and Grandad carried on. Grandmother had taught her well—frying potatoes, making pancakes, knowing which shops were cheapest. Emily finished school, went to college. There were no universities in town, and she wouldn’t leave Grandad.
One day, he led her to a painting on the wall—sloppy, abstract shapes barely forming a figure. It looked out of place among the floral wallpaper and dark furniture. Emily never asked why it hung there—maybe they just liked it. She knew nothing about art, but even she could tell it wasn’t valuable.
“This is your dowry,” Grandad said.
“That painting?” she said, baffled.
“No. Beneath it—there’s an icon. A real one, blessed. That’s worth a fortune. You’re a rich bride now. Just in case, I’m telling you—don’t throw it out by mistake.”
He handed her an address scribbled on paper. “Hide this well. Tell no one—understood?”
Emily nodded, though she didn’t understand at all. Their life went on, and she forgot about it—until her mother unexpectedly showed up years later. Emily knew her the second she opened the door. *Knew*, rather than recognised. She’d aged badly—dressed in rags, missing teeth.
“Can I come in?” she said, that old irritation creeping into her voice.
“So you’re back,” Grandad said behind Emily. “Could’ve called. Did some man throw you out again?”
“Where’s Mum?” her mother asked, dropping a battered bag.
“You remembered her. She died five years ago. Didn’t you get the news? Oh wait—you never left an address. Why are you here?”
“I missed you. Nothing’s changed here.” She glanced around. “Even that dreadful painting’s still up. Always wanted to chuck it out.”
“You didn’t hang it—don’t touch it,” Grandad said sharply.
She asked Emily questions, even hugged her. Emily stood stiffly, feeling nothing. Grandad spoke coldly, worked up until his heart gave out. They rushed him to hospital—pre-heart attack, the doctors said. Alone with her mother, the silence was unbearable.
“Don’t look at me like that,” her mother said over tea. “I was in love back then. Lost my head. We moved north. I meant to fetch you, but—it was better here. Cold up there. Dark all winter. My husband didn’t want you. Wanted his own child. But I couldn’t… So he beat me. Knocked my teeth out.” She bared her gaps. “Soon as he died, I came back. And you two aren’t even glad.”
She asked Emily to come with her—a flat waiting in London, universities there.
“What about Grandad?” Emily said.
“He’s old. Might not recover.”
“Don’t say that! He *will*!” Emily stormed out, returning late. The next day, she visited Grandad. He seemed stronger. She told him about her mother’s offer.
“Don’t worry—I won’t go. She’s been calling someone, asking about money.”
“That’s why she came. What else? She doesn’t want us. Only thing left is that painting.”
“Where’s it from?”
“Long story. After wars, people stole from churches—burned icons. My grandmother took some to save them. Someone painted over this one to hide it. Never saw what’s underneath. But it protected us. Everyone came home from the wars alive. That’s how it was.”
A few days laterYears later, as Emily tucked her own children into bed, she glanced at the empty space where the painting once hung, wondering if her mother ever discovered the truth beneath the brushstrokes—or if it had been lost to the shadows of her reckless life.
