Dera.
You’d think I’d feel proud after today. I should, right? One of my paintings sold for ten thousand freaking dollars. People clapped. They said nice things. They liked my art.
But I was on the floor. Literally.
I was curled up on the living room rug with a soaked tissue in my hand, and another one balanced awkwardly on my forehead for no reason other than for dramatic effect. Zara sat beside me like the tiny therapist she was, holding out her fifth tissue in a row.
“Here, mummy.” She said gently.
I took it. Blew my nose like a trumpet.
“I hate this.” I groaned.
She patted my arm.
“Mummy, you’re crying a lot.
Why thanks, Captain Obvious.
“I know, baby. I’ll be okay soon.”
She nodded.
“Want me to make you some tea? You take some when you’re sad.”
“I just want to stop feel
