The Sunset of Love, the Dawn of a Career
“I’m leaving, James. And don’t you dare try to stop me,” Emily clutched an old paintbrush with a worn wooden handle as if it were a talisman. Behind her, an unfinished canvas dried on the easel—a scarlet sunset torn apart by dark strokes.
“Leaving? For what? Your paints and brushes?” James laughed, but anger sharpened his voice. “You’re nothing without me, Emily. Nothing. Who’d even want your scribbles?”
She looked at him—the man who once promised her the stars and now stole even the light from her. His face, once so familiar, was twisted with contempt. Emily took a deep breath, feeling resolve flood her veins, and walked out, slamming the door behind her. The wind tangled her hair as something new burned in her chest—freedom.
***
Mornings in their little town smelled of dew, freshly cut grass, and chimney smoke. Emily woke to the song of sparrows outside her window and glanced at the easel in the corner. The blank canvas stared back, silent and accusing, like an old friend she’d betrayed. Today, James had promised to take her to an exhibition in the city. She smiled, remembering his words from two years ago.
“You’re brilliant, Em,” he’d said, holding her in their tiny rented flat. The desk lamp cast light over her sketches scattered across the table. “I’ll help you show the world. You’ll shine.”
She’d believed him—until his promises dissolved into jabs: “Stop wasting time on doodles,” “It’s time to think about family,” “Who even wants your pictures?” Each cut left a mark, like ink spilled on fresh paper, and Emily hid her brushes away more often.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” James strode in, already dressed in his crisp shirt, smelling of expensive cologne. “Breakfast’s ready. Hurry up. Mum called—she’s expecting us for lunch.”
“What about the exhibition?” Emily sat up, ruffling her unbrushed blonde hair.
“What exhibition?” He frowned, adjusting his tie. “Em, we’ve got things to do. Mum wants to discuss the house repairs, and I need to stop by the office. Maybe another time?”
“But you promised—” Her voice wavered, then died at the sight of his irritated glare.
“Emily, don’t start. I’ve had enough of your whims,” he snapped, leaving behind a trail of cologne.
She swallowed her disappointment. It was always like this: “another time,” “later,” “not now.” Her dreams melted into his plans like watercolours in the rain. Emily pulled on an old jumper and trudged to the kitchen, where James’s toast and coffee sat cooling on the table. Even his care felt mechanical, like an obligation.
***
Emily grew up in a house where art was a waste of time. Their creaky cottage on the edge of town smelled of damp wood. Her mother, exhausted from shifts at the local textile factory, would grumble, “Drawings won’t fill your belly.” Her father, always tinkering with rusty cars in the garage, just shrugged at her sketches.
“Emily, more scribbles?” Her mother peered into the attic, where ten-year-old Emily sat with her sketchbook, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’d be better off peeling potatoes.”
“They’re not scribbles, Mum,” Emily whispered, hiding her latest drawing—a sunset she’d seen from her window. “It’s me.”
Her mother sighed and muttered about “nonsense” as she left. The only one who saw Emily’s spark was her art teacher, Mrs. Whitmore—a silver-haired woman who always wore bright scarves and corrected Emily’s grip with the gentleness of holding a bird.
“You’ve got a gift, Emily,” she’d say, examining her sketches. “Don’t let anyone snuff it out. Promise?”
“I promise,” Emily whispered, her heart racing.
But after school, dreams of art college shattered. Her mother insisted on a “proper” job, so Emily studied accounting at a technical college. There, she met James—the charming son of a local businessman, his smile enough to melt ice. He seemed like her escape from the grey town.
“You’ll be my muse,” he whispered on their first date, kissing her hand by the old fountain in the park. “I’ll make you happy.”
Emily believed him. They married a year later, moved into his parents’ house, and she started a new life. But with each month, James reminded her more often that her place was the kitchen, not a studio. Her paints gathered dust, and the easel became furniture.
***
“Em, where are you?” James’s voice yanked her from her thoughts. She stood at the stove, stirring a stew while half-drawn images flickered in her mind. The smell of onions and carrots mixed with her exhaustion.
“Here,” she forced a smile, wiping her hands. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Good. I’m popping to the office, then I’ll be back.” He glanced at the stove. “Oh, and Mum asked when we’re having kids. It’s about time, don’t you think?”
Emily nodded, though her throat tightened. Children? She’d love them fiercely, but every time James mentioned it, her dreams felt locked away, as if someone had thrown the key into the murky river beyond town.
“James, what if I started painting again?” she ventured, watching his back. “Maybe I could take a class or—”
“Painting?” He turned, lips curling. “Seriously, Em? It’s kid stuff. Worry about dinner instead. Mum’s coming over—she wants roast beef.”
She stayed silent, something inside her hardening. That evening, after her mother-in-law left, Emily tidied their room. She opened James’s wardrobe to fold his shirts and found his forgotten phone. The screen lit up, and before she knew it, she’d unlocked it. Messages from a “Katie” stabbed at her: “When are you dumping that mouse of a wife?” “Miss you, come over.” Photos too—a dark-haired woman in a tight dress, smiling like she owned the world.
“Em, I’m home!” James called from the hall.
She shoved the phone back, wiped her tears, and met him with a forced smile. But inside, everything collapsed. Dinner passed in silence, forks clinking, James rambling about work while she stared past him.
***
The next day, Emily met her friend Lucy at “The Riverside Café.” Lucy, her schoolmate with an infectious laugh, was now a barista and always knew how to lift her spirits. They sat by the window, and Emily spilled everything.
“He’s cheating, Lu,” her voice trembled. “I saw the messages. And he—he laughs at my paintings.”
“Em, listen,” Lucy squeezed her hand, eyes fierce. “You deserve better than that tosser. Remember how you glowed when you painted? Go back to it!”
“But how?” Emily shook her head. “I’ve got no time, no money. And James—”
“Sod James!” Lucy smacked the table. “Start small. There’s a local artists’ exhibit soon. Submit your work. If he whinges—tell him to piss off!”
“An exhibit?” Emily hesitated. “I haven’t painted properly in years. What if no one likes them?”
“What if they do?” Lucy grinned. “Em, you’ve always been a fighter. Remember when we’d sneak to the river and you’d sketch sunsets on notebook paper? Where’s that girl?”
Emily smiled, recalling summers with grass tickling her bare feet and the world feeling endless. Lucy’s words stuck. That night, she dug out her old easel from the shed and unsealed her paints. The smell of oils and turpentine hit her like a hello from the past. For the first time in years, her hands didn’t shake. On the canvas, her childhood sunsets came alive again—scarlet, gold, full of promise.
***
A week later, Emily took the leap. She bundled three paintings—a riverside landscape, Lucy’s portrait, and an abstract sunset—and headed to the town’s arts centre. The building smelled of old wood and varnish, artists milling about. She felt out of place until she heard a familiar voice.
“Emily? Is that you?” Mrs. Whitmore stood by the registration desk, her silver curls pinned up, a bright shawl draped over her shoulders.
“Mrs. Whitmore!” Emily nearly dropped her paintings. “You’re here?”
“Where else would I be?” The old woman chuckled. “I’m on the judging panel. Let’s see what you’ve brought, love.”
Emily shyly unwrapped her canvases. Mrs. Whitmore studied them, adjusting her glasses, then smiled.
“These are stunning, Emily. They’ve got soul. You must exhibit. And I’ll help you submit. Trust me.”
Tears prickled Emily’s eyes. For the first time in forever, someone believed in her. She floated home, but the joy faded fast. James noticed the easel and paints strewn across the room.
“Em, back to your paints?” He crossed his armsEmily looked him in the eye, her voice steady as she replied, “I’d rather be alone with my paints than trapped with someone who drowns my light,” and with that, she walked away, leaving behind the life that had shrunk her world—stepping into one where every sunset she painted was hers alone.
