**The Enigmatic Painting**
I sat in the backseat of the car, staring out the window, my spirits inexplicably high—like before Christmas or a birthday. But my birthday is in December, and this was July.
At the wheel was a stern, burly man. All I could see was the back of his shaven head, merging into a thick neck. Something about him felt off, almost mechanical. I rose slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of his face.
“Sit down!” he snapped without turning.
I slumped back into my seat and returned to watching the blur of fields, woods, and villages outside. We overtook two cyclists—a man and a boy—who glanced at me through the glass. My excitement returned. This was my first trip to another town, to meet grandparents I’d never seen.
“Are we nearly there?” I asked.
“No,” Mum replied from the front.
“Why haven’t we visited Nan and Grandad before?”
She mumbled something indistinct.
“Is there a river there?”
“Yes. Everything’s there. Enough questions—you’ll see for yourself soon.” Her tone sharpened.
I bit my tongue. Lately, Mum snapped at everything. It had started after Dad left, packing his things without a word.
*We must be going on holiday,* I thought. *She packed so much—even my favourite toys. Even my schoolbag. But why bring that on holiday?* Questions swirled, but I dared not ask.
Leaning back, I hummed softly, testing different notes.
“Stop that whining!” Mum barked. I fell silent, sulking.
Soon, we entered the town. As the car pulled up beside a two-storey brick house, I pressed my face to the window.
“We’re here. Home sweet home,” Mum said flatly, stepping out.
The house was old, grey, with two entrances. No garden, no swings or slide—just two benches by the doors. The driver unloaded our bags and stared at the building while Mum asked him to wait. She grabbed the luggage and marched inside. I scurried after her.
The door was wooden, cracked brown paint peeling, no keypad lock like at home.
“Open it,” Mum said impatiently.
I darted forward, pushing it open with a creak. Upstairs, Mum set the suitcase down to ring the bell—but the door swung open before she could. A tall, severe woman stood there, silent, just staring.
Mum stepped inside, and I clung to her side, realising this was Nan.
“Well? Don’t just stand there—come in.” Nan’s voice was far from welcoming.
I didn’t move, glued to Mum. Then a silver-haired man appeared.
“This is your Grandad Henry,” Mum said quietly, gesturing to the bags.
“We’ll sort it,” Nan replied curtly. “Not even stopping for tea?”
“No, the taxi’s waiting.”
And then it hit me—Mum was leaving me here. I wrapped my arms around her, begging, “Mummy, don’t go! Take me with you!”
“You didn’t tell her?” Nan accused.
Mum didn’t answer, prying my hands away roughly. “I’ll come back for you. Stay with Nan and Grandad for now. Enough!” She shoved me off.
Nan’s arms locked around me as Mum slipped out. I writhed, screaming, “Mum! Let me go!”
But she was gone.
“Emily,” Grandad’s calm voice cut through. He stood tall, smiling—kind eyes full of curiosity. “Come with me.”
He led me into the living room—old furniture, a piano in the corner. It was cosy, quiet, just the ticking clock. Later, we drank tea with pancakes. The best I’d ever tasted.
Outside, Nan left me with two girls playing near the door.
“Are you staying here now?” one asked.
“No, my mum’s coming back for me,” I said firmly, eyes stinging.
September came. Mum didn’t return. I started school with those girls in Year 2. Life with Nan and Grandad was peaceful—no shouting, no fights. Not like home.
After Dad left, Mum vanished most evenings. I’d stare out the window, straining to see her taxi. When she finally came, I’d pretend to sleep, heart pounding with relief.
Eventually, I stopped waiting. Nan said once, “She’s sorting her life out.” I grew up untroubled.
When Nan fell ill in Year 8 and died, I saw Grandad cry for the first time. Just us two now. He showed me the odd painting on the wall—a jumble of shapes hiding something precious underneath.
“That’s your inheritance,” he said. “A real icon—valuable. Keep it safe.”
I forgot about it—until years later, when Mum reappeared, ragged and toothless.
“Missed you,” she slurred, but I felt nothing.
Grandad’s heart gave out that day—the shock, the theft. The painting was gone when we returned from the hospital.
“Your mother took it,” he seethed. “After everything—she stole your future.”
He faded fast after that. Feeding him like a child, watching him shrink—until he was gone, too.
Alone, I finished college, married, moved to London. Had a daughter, little Valerie.
Years later, in a subway, a beggar’s cough froze me. That voice—was it her? I didn’t look back.
Some wounds don’t heal. But life moves on.
I never saw her again. If I had—I’d have walked straight past.
