Husband, Are You Going to Divorce Me Today

Chapter 4 The Inheritance

After I signed the divorce papers, I moved out of the house. I didn't want the house. I didn't want the car. I didn't want the monthly stipend. I took my paintings, my brushes, and the money my father had left me. It was enough to rent a small apartment in a part of the city that wasn't fashionable but was mine.

I started painting again. Not the careful, controlled things I had made for years. The real things. The angry, sad, honest things. I found a small gallery near my apartment that showed local artists. The owner, a woman named Cass, looked at my portfolio and said, "Where have you been?"

"Hiding," I said.

She gave me a show. It was small. It was in the back room. But it was mine.

The opening was on a Thursday. I wore a black dress that I had bought at a thrift store. I did my hair the way I liked it. I didn't wear pearls.

The gallery was full of people I didn't know. Friends of Cass. Other artists. A few strangers who had seen the announcement in the paper. No one from the Vance world. I had not invited them. I didn't want them there.

I was standing by one of my paintings when Margaret Vance walked in.

She was wearing a gray suit and a look of calm curiosity. She walked through the gallery like she was evaluating a property. Then she stopped in front of the largest painting in the show. It was a portrait of a woman with white hair and a broken crown. I had painted it the week after I left Nathaniel.

"Hello, Eleanor," Margaret said.

"Margaret."

She looked at the painting. "Is this me?"

"No. It's me."

She nodded. "It's good."

"Thank you."

She turned to face me. "I wanted to see what you would do. After."

"After what?"

"After you stopped pretending."

I looked at her. "What do you want, Margaret?"

"I want to offer you something." She reached into her bag and pulled out a card. "I have a foundation. It supports artists. Particularly artists who have had... difficult beginnings."

I took the card. It was a plain white rectangle with her name and a phone number.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because I spent thirty years pretending to be someone I wasn't. And I regret every minute of it." She looked at the painting again. "You have a gift. I don't want you to waste it."

She left before I could say thank you. I stood there holding the card. I had no idea what to do with it. But I knew I would call her.

The next day, I got a text from Nathaniel.

Nathaniel: My mother showed me a photo of your show. The paintings are incredible.

I stared at the screen. I hadn't expected that.

Eleanor: Thank you.

Nathaniel: Can we talk?

Eleanor: Why?

Nathaniel: Because I think I made a mistake.

Eleanor: You didn't make a mistake. You made a choice.

Nathaniel: Then let me make a different one.

I didn't answer. I didn't know how. I had spent years trying to be what he wanted. I had finally stopped. And now he was saying he wanted me?

I put the phone down and went back to work. I had a painting to finish.