Nina
I open the door and stare at my mother. “What are you doing here?”
“You haven’t been answering your phone for weeks. I was worried.”
I move to the side to let her come in, close the door, and head into my living room. “I messaged you yesterday.”
“Yeah, your ‘I’m okay, stop calling’ didn’t convince me. How are you feeling?”
“Like a train wreck.” I shrug, take the brush, and resume working on my painting.
“You look awful, Nina.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
From a corner of my eye, I see her come into the room and slowly turn around, looking at the paintings I lined along the walls.
“You usually add some bright color. All of those are plain gray and black,” she says.
“How would you know that? You were never interested in my art.”
She doesn’t reply but comes to stand next to me an
