The Enigmatic Painting

The Enigmatic Painting

Lydia sat in the back seat of the car, gazing out the window. Her spirits were high, as though it were Christmas or her birthday—but her birthday was in December, and now it was July.

Behind the wheel sat a stern, broad-shouldered man. All she could see was his shaven neck, thick and unyielding. The sight of it made her uneasy. He stared straight ahead, never turning his head, as if his rigid posture wouldn’t allow it. Lydia wondered if he was even human—maybe just a robot. She leaned forward to catch a glimpse of his face.

“Sit back!” he snapped without turning.

She slumped into her seat and turned her attention back to the passing countryside—fields, woods, villages. They overtook two cyclists, a man and a boy, who glanced at her through the glass. Excitement bubbled up again. This was her first trip to another city, to meet grandparents she’d never seen.

“How much longer?” Lydia asked.

“Not long,” her mother replied from the front.

“Why haven’t we visited them before?”

Her mother muttered something indistinct.

“Is there a river there?”

“Yes. There’s everything. Stop talking—you’ll see when we arrive.” Her mother’s voice carried a growing edge.

Lydia fell silent. Lately, her mother snapped at everything, ever since Dad left. He’d packed his things and walked out without a word.

*Maybe this is a holiday*, Lydia thought. *Mum brought so many things, even my toys. Even my schoolbag. But why bring a schoolbag on holiday?* Questions swirled, but she didn’t dare ask.

Leaning back, she hummed softly, one note after another—

“Stop that whining! You’re giving me a headache,” her mother snapped. Lydia scowled but obeyed.

Soon, they entered the town. The car stopped outside a red-brick house with two storeys.

“Here we are. Home sweet home,” her mother said, stepping out. Her tone lacked joy.

The house was old, grey, with two entrances but no garden, no plastic slide or swings—just a pair of benches by the doors. The driver unloaded their bags, eyeing the house warily. Her mother asked him to wait, grabbed their luggage, and headed inside. Lydia trailed behind.

The door was wooden, peeling brown paint, no keypad lock like theirs.

“Open it,” her mother said irritably.

Lydia dashed ahead and pulled it open with a creak. They climbed to the second floor. Her mother set the suitcase down to press the buzzer, but the door swung open before she could. A tall, severe-looking woman stood there, silent.

Her mother stepped inside, and Lydia clung to her. She knew—this was her grandmother.

“Well? Don’t just stand there. Come in,” the woman said coldly.

Lydia didn’t move. She felt glued to her mother’s side. Then a tall, silver-haired man appeared.

“This is your Grandad William,” her mother murmured. “These are her clothes, her toys, her shoes…”

“We’ll manage,” her grandmother cut in. “Won’t you even stay for tea?”

“No, the taxi’s waiting.”

And then Lydia understood—her mother was leaving her here. She wrapped her arms around her, pleading, “Mummy! Don’t go! Take me with you!”

“You didn’t tell her?” her grandmother accused.

Her mother didn’t answer. She pried Lydia’s hands away, but the girl held on fiercely.

“I’ll come back for you. Just stay with your grandparents for now—stop it!” Her mother yanked free and pushed her back.

Grandma’s arms caught Lydia, pulling her close. She squirmed, twisted like an eel.

“Go! Just go!” Grandma barked, and her mother slipped out the door.

“Mum! Let go!” Lydia shrieked.

But her mother was gone.

“Lydia,” Grandad William said calmly, stepping in front of her. He was tall, steady, smiling. She stared up, trembling—but his eyes were kind.

“Come along,” he said, taking her hand and leading her inside.

The room was old-fashioned but cosy—a sofa, a piano, the ticking of a wall clock. Even the pancakes they ate were the best she’d ever had. Later, Grandma took her outside to play with two neighbourhood girls.

“You living here now?” one asked.

“No, Mum’s coming back for me,” Lydia said firmly. But her eyes betrayed her.

September came. Her mother didn’t return. Lydia started school. The other girls were in her class—2B. Surprisingly, she liked living with her grandparents. They never shouted, never yelled—unlike her parents.

Back home, Mum and Dad had stopped speaking. They only screamed. Then Dad left. Mum started going out at night. Lydia would stare out the window until the headlights of a taxi appeared, relief flooding her as she pretended to sleep.

She missed Mum at first. Then, slowly, she stopped. Grandma only mentioned her once—*she’s sorting out her life*. Lydia grew up untroubled. When she was fourteen, Grandma fell ill and died. She’d never seen a grown man cry before.

Now it was just her and Grandad. He taught her things—where the cheapest groceries were, how to cook. After school, she went to college. They couldn’t afford university, and she wouldn’t let him live alone.

One day, he showed her the painting. It was an odd thing—messy, abstract shapes, barely resembling a person. It looked out of place amid the floral wallpaper and dark furniture.

“That’s your dowry,” he said.

“This painting?”

“No. Underneath it—there’s an heirloom. A real, precious icon. Worth a fortune. So you’re a wealthy bride.” He handed her an address. “If you ever need money, sell it—but only here. Tell no one.”

She nodded, though she barely understood.

Years passed. Then, one day, her mother returned. Lydia recognised her at once—but she was older, worn, missing teeth.

“Can I come in?” she rasped.

“You’re back?” Grandad said coldly from behind Lydia. “No warning?”

“Where’s Mum?”

“Died five years ago. You didn’t leave an address. Why now?”

“Missed you.” She shuffled inside. “Still got that ugly painting, I see.”

“Not yours to judge,” Grandad snapped.

She asked Lydia questions, even hugged her, but Lydia felt nothing. The old man grew agitated, clutching his chest. Paramedics took him away—warning signs of a heart attack. Alone with her mother, the silence was suffocating.

“Don’t look at me like that,” her mother muttered over tea. “I was in love. Lost my head. We went north—wanted to fetch you, but it was better here. Cold, dark… My husband wanted his own child. When I couldn’t, he beat me.” She bared her ruined teeth. “Soon as he died, I came back.”

“You’re leaving again,” Lydia said.

“Maybe. Come with me. Big city, universities—”

“And Grandad?”

“He’s old. Might not recover.”

“Don’t say that!” Lydia shouted.

She left, returning late. Next day, she visited Grandad. He seemed stronger.

“She’s after money,” he said. “Always was.”

The painting was gone. She hadn’t told him—didn’t want to upset him. But he noticed the blank space on the wall.

“Your mother took it,” he seethed. “Sold it for pennies, I’ll bet. My own daughter…” He gripped his chest. “She stole your future.”

Maybe the icon had power. Grandad, never ill before, withered after its loss. He shrank, forgot names—once calling her *Margaret*, Grandma’s name. Then, one night, he died in his sleep.

Lydia was alone. She finished college, married, moved to London. They had children—Valerie and little William.

One day, in a subway tunnel, a ragged woman begged: *”Kind people, help me!”* Lydia hurried past.

*That voice.* She turned. If it was her mother, she barely recognised her. But she walked away.

At home, she told her husband.

“Probably a mistake,” he said.

She went back to check. The woman was gone.

Life moved on. The icon was lost. Maybe it had power—maybe not. But Lydia’s life was good. She rarely thought of her mother.

If they ever met again, she’d walk straight past.

*Forgiving sets you free.*

The past no longer held her.