I S A B E L L A
My eyes soon land on my mother, who is standing in the doorway, with the same soft expression she always has when she knows I'm upset but doesn't know how to fix it.
“I figured I’d find you here,” she says gently, stepping inside as she watches me carefully. I sigh to myself once I realise that it's just her, taking a few steps from my canvas and standing in one place as I keep my eyes on her.
I don’t respond right away. I don’t know what to say to her. There’s a lump in my throat, and I hate it. I hate that I feel so vulnerable in front of her when all I want to do is be angry. To lash out. To make her understand what they’ve done to me. But the words won’t come.
She walks over slowly, her eyes sweeping the room like she’s remembering it all—how many times she’s found
