"Okay, okay…" My intensity made her shy. She patted me where I'd buried myself against her. "You know your precious Nathaniel Swanson is going to be at the exhibition today, right? If we don't hurry, you'll miss him!"
Nathaniel Swanson.
That name still stung somewhere deep in my chest.
The humiliation of having nowhere to go—I never wanted to feel that again.
I had been reborn. I was not going to end up old and homeless a second time.
"Stell, I don't want to go. I'm not feeling well…"
"All right, what a waste of those tickets I worked so hard to get." Stella offered to walk me home first and then go enjoy the exhibition on her own. I nodded and let her.
When I got back, my parents were at work. My younger siblings hadn't come home from school yet. Only my eldest sister Layla was there, sweeping the floor.
She looked surprised to see me—then her face soured, and she asked why I wasn't at the exhibition seeing Nathaniel in the flesh.
"Come on, Layla, Teresa's not feeling well!"
"Hmph. One look at that Swanson man and she won't be sick anymore." She raised the broom like she meant to sweep me right out the door, but when she actually reached me, the swings barely grazed the air.
I knew—Layla despised Nathaniel.
She thought he was a drifter, the kind of man who'd never make a reliable husband.
"He can't do a lick of honest work and doesn't know the first thing about making a living. What kind of future is he going to give you?"
Back then I'd been stubborn, convinced Nathaniel was simply an unrecognized genius. Once someone saw his talent, everyone else would have to see it too.
Turns out, Layla and I were both right. After we married, Nathaniel was hardly ever home. He spent his days drifting wherever inspiration took him, sketching from life, while every last thing in that household—big or small—fell on me.
Nathaniel's art would indeed appreciate in value over the years. But by then he'd donated every last painting and scroll to the school he credited as his "great patron." Not a single piece left for me—his most loyal follower.
The day I married Nathaniel, Layla was so angry she stayed home.
The night before, she'd still been pushing me to run from the wedding: