Page 82 of None Of Your Business

It took me years to realize it was also the sound of my mother’s mind unraveling.

She pulls out the final canvas. I know, even before she unwraps it, which child this one belongs to. The math only leaves one place to land.

Mine is noticeably smaller than the others.

Muddy brown-gray swallows most of the canvas. Near the center sits a pale shape that might be a swaddled infant, surrounded by jagged lines pulled taut around it.

The others were held, but this one looks contained.

I stare at it.

“That was after you,” Mom says quietly.

“I can tell.”

She watches the painting for a long moment, her thumb hovering above the surface.

“I was officially diagnosed right after Piper. There had been signs for years, but that was when a doctor finally attached a label to it. Then I got pregnant with you. We hadn’t planned it. Your father and I had agreed after Piper that we were done.”

I swallow.

“I was still trying to find the right medication. Still trying to understand what my own brain was doing to me.”

She sets the canvas carefully on the blanket. “I don’t remember painting this one the way I remember the others, but I remember feeling like I was underwater.” Her voice gets quieter. “I remember looking at you in your crib and knowing I was supposed to feel something enormous. Knowing I loved you because you were mine, but feeling like I was looking at my own baby through a thick sheet of glass.”

I’ve heard this story before. I know the shape of it.

But I’ve never had the evidence sitting in my lap.

Different illnesses, I think.

Same instinct. Hide the worst of it before anyone else has to carry it.

That realization frightens me more than the painting.

“Mom—”

“Let’s not.” Her hands move faster now as she reaches for the old pillowcases. “Let’s not dig up the past today, Ro.”

I catch her wrist before she can wrap mine. “Can I borrow it?”

She looks at me. “What?”

“My canvas.” I lift it carefully from the blanket. “Can I take it home for a little while?”

Her brow furrows. “Why?”

I look down at the dark paint. “I think…” I pause. “I think I might be able to use it for my show.”

“Rowan, honey, it’s not…” Her mouth tightens. “It isn’t like the others.”

“I know.” The lie comes easily. “That’s what I like about it. The way you layered the darker tones. It gives me some ideas for a new piece.”

I don’t tell her that every time I stare at that tiny, pale baby trapped beneath layers of dark paint, my chest aches.

Maybe that’s the point. Maybe I need the pain.

She watches me closely, searching my face for the truth, but I keep my expression neutral.