Chapter 9 - The First Canvas of a New Life
January rolled into Columbus and Cincinnati with freezing temperatures and towering snowdrifts, but inside my mother’s apartment, the atmosphere was warmer and brighter than anything I had experienced in years.
Dad and Brooke’s divorce proceedings were moving forward steadily. True to her word, Brooke had packed up and moved to her mother’s house in Cleveland by the middle of January, taking Wyatt with her temporarily for the start of the new school semester—though Dad had already filed for joint custody, ensuring Wyatt would spend every other weekend and all summer with him in Columbus.
Wyatt and I texted almost every day. He sent me pictures of sketches he had started doing in the sketchbook I gave him before leaving, and we joked about the terrible cafeteria food at our respective schools. The artificial distance Brooke had manufactured between us had melted away now that the performance was over.
Back in Cincinnati, I enrolled in a local youth art program, using my new digital drawing tablet every single day. My illustrations improved by leaps and bounds, fueled by the freedom of expression I finally possessed.
By late spring, the world outside my window had turned a brilliant, vibrant green.
On a warm Saturday in May 2027, Dad drove down to Cincinnati in his new, smaller sedan—a practical, reliable blue hatchback that smelled only of clean upholstery and peppermint gum.
He took me out to an Italian restaurant downtown for a celebratory lunch.
"How’s the new art portfolio coming along, Luce?" Dad asked, taking a sip of iced tea.
"I entered three digital pieces into the regional youth art showcase," I beamed, resting my chin on my hands. "And... I won second place in the digital illustration category!"
Dad’s face lit up with a pride so fierce and genuine it nearly made me cry. He reached across the table and grabbed both my hands.
"Second place?!" he exclaimed, a huge grin breaking across his face. "Lucy, that’s incredible! We need to frame it. We need to hang it right in the living room of my new apartment."
"Your new apartment?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Is it big enough this time?"
"It’s plenty big," Dad laughed. "It has a dedicated art studio nook right by the bay window. And the best part? No fake fireplaces anywhere on the premises."
I laughed, a bright, bubbly sound that felt entirely natural.
Later that afternoon, as Dad drove me back to my mother’s apartment, we listened to my favorite playlist on the radio, singing along off-key to every song.
When we pulled up to the curb, Dad turned off the engine and looked over at me with a soft, content expression.
"You know, Luce," he said quietly, "looking back on that Christmas morning... it felt like the worst day of my life when it was happening. But it turned out to be the day everything finally became real."
I reached into my backpack and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped package tied with a silver ribbon—a hand-drawn watercolor portrait of the oak tree outside Grandma June’s house, framed in simple dark wood.
"Happy un-Christmas, Dad," I said, handing it to him.
Dad took the package, his fingers gently tracing the ribbon. When he unwrapped it and saw the painting, his eyes shimmered with tears, but his smile was the brightest I had ever seen.
May you like
He pulled me into a warm, unbreakable hug.
The gray socks were long gone, worn out and discarded months ago. But the foundation we built that winter morning was solid, permanent, and entirely our own. And as we sat there in the warm spring sunlight, I knew that every single tomorrow we had left was going to be filled with color, truth, and love.
