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“What did you just say?” I ask.
“I don’t want you to ever get remarried,” Dylan repeats, his voice tinged with anger.
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I never realized how much my relationships affected him.
“Why?” Relationships, let alone marriage, haven’t exactly been at the forefront of my mind for the last couple of years. But for Dylan to be so against the possibility means something else is happening here.
“Because you’re so much happier alone,” Dylan says, his voice going quiet.
Am I? I think to myself.
“When that woman was around—”
“Come on, now. She’s still your mom.” I hate to intervene, but I can’t let him disrespect Anna like that. She might not have been around lately, but she still went through the discomfort and pain of pregnancy and birth.
Dylan just rolls his eyes. “Whatever, when Anna (he emphasizes melodramatically) was around, you seemed miserable all the time, except when you were in your studio painting.”
“You remember that?” Dylan was really little back then, and I can’t believe his memory goes that far back.
“Yeah.” Dylan looks so small in the passenger seat. He’s been growing so quickly lately that I forget he’s still just a kid. I reach over and pull him into a one-armed hug, the best I can do while still driving. “I’ve been wanting to ask you why you stopped painting,” Dylan continues. “It seemed to bring you so much joy back in the day. Remember when you had your first gallery?”
“Of course.” I smile at the memory. Anna may have wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, but those days, more often than not, Dylan would spend time with me in the studio, playing with his toys while I painted. While I was setting up the gallery, Dylan was stumbling around like toddlers do, playing with his toy airplane. “It was one of the best nights of my life—other than when you were born.”
“Nice save.” Dylan rolls his eyes at me again, but I know he’s just joking, and we both laugh.
“You should get another studio,” Dylan suggests. “You could paint the farms. They’re going to be destroyed soon anyway, right?”
I feel my heart drop into my stomach at his words.
“Yeah,” I agree, my voice not nearly as convincing as it should be. The condos will be built. It’s too late to stop it now.
“So, what a great way to preserve their memories.”
“You make a good point.” I could present one of the paintings to Mae. Maybe it would help her forgive me.
“Well?” Dylan asks. He sounds so self-assured—definitely my son.
“It’s funny we’re talking about this,” I say, “because Mae actually just gave me an easel she found in a crawl space.”
“See?” Dylans says. “The universe is begging you to paint.”
“Why is this so important to you?” I ask him, looking at him from the corner of my eye.
“Because…” he trails off.
“Because…why?” I turn the truck into our building’s parking garage.
“Because…I don’t know.” And that’s all the answer he gives me before exiting the car, slamming the passenger door behind him.
***
The next day, I take Mae up on her offer to go to the art store with me. Dylan refuses to tell me why my painting is so important to him, but I can tell that it is. And if my own joy of painting isn’t enough to get me back into it, my son’s determination definitely is.
I pause after walking through the door, breathing in the familiar art store scent.
“Man, it’s been a while. Too long.”
Mae takes a prolonged sniff. “It’s so good, right?”
