The Golden Mending

CHAPTER 16 - The Painting That Spoke

Six months later.

The main gallery in the city center was bathed in warm, golden light tonight. On the central wall hung my largest piece—a silhouette of a woman standing before a mirror, but her reflection was no longer a withered shadow. It was a radiant, luminous figure. The title was simple: "The Rebirth."

"Lala, a curator from Singapore just asked for the price of your centerpiece," Sarah, now my manager, whispered with sparkling eyes. "She said the emotion in your brushstrokes is... hauntingly real."

I gave a small smile. "Tell her that piece isn't for sale, Sarah. It’s a reminder for myself."

Across the room, I saw Adrian. He wasn't holding a camera tonight. He was wearing a sharp black shirt, looking at me from a distance with a pride so quiet yet so profound. When our eyes met, he raised his glass slightly—a silent toast of respect.

However, amidst the celebration, a bouquet of white roses arrived with no sender's name. Only a small card tucked inside.

“Congratulations on your exhibition. You deserve this stage. — R.”

I knew it was from Roy. The last I heard, Roy had sold our mansion. He now lived in a modest house with Mother Widya and Intan. He worked at a small distribution firm, far from the high-ranking position he once held. They said he wanted to focus on paying for Intan’s medical bills and education as his way of atoning for his sins against Maya.

I took a long, deep breath. There was no more hatred, no more pain. Roy was just a name in the biography of my past.

"Lala?" Adrian approached me, handing me a glass of water. "Lost in thought?"

"Just thinking about how fast everything changes," I answered honestly. "I used to be terrified that if I left that house, I would break. It turns out, the house was the thing breaking me."

Adrian leaned his shoulder against a gallery pillar. "Sometimes we have to lose everything to realize we actually have everything within ourselves. Oh, I have something for you."

He handed me a brown envelope. Inside were prints of photos he had taken over the last six months. Not photos of exhibitions, but photos of me painting on my iPad, laughing at a coffee shop, even falling asleep in front of a canvas with a smudge of paint on my cheek.

"Is this... me?" I asked, breathless.

"That is the strongest woman I’ve ever known," Adrian said softly. "I want you to see yourself through my lens. You’re no longer the 'neglected wife,' Lala. You are an inspiration."

That night, under the flickering gallery lights, I realized one thing. Happiness isn't about having a perfect husband or a grand house. Happiness is the moment we dare to be honest with ourselves, let go of the fake, and embrace the sincere.

I didn't know where my relationship with Adrian was headed. But one thing was for sure: I would never again let anyone else hold the brush to paint my future.