For three months, my husband claimed he spent weekends camping with our son. Then Toby revealed their secret rule — and I realized Greg had been lying to me every single time.
The kitchen clock read 2:14 a.m., and the only light in the house came from the small lamp above my easel. I painted in silence, careful not to let the brush click against the glass jar.
When I heard my husband, Greg, shift upstairs, I slid the canvas under our bed and covered it with an old quilt.
“Greg, don’t start.”
By morning, I was Nora again. Wife. Mother. The woman who packed juice boxes and pretended her hands never held anything more dangerous than a spatula.
“Mommy, look!” my son, Toby squealed, holding up a crayon drawing.
“That’s beautiful, baby.” I kissed the top of his head. “You’re the real artist in this house.”
Greg came in behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist.
“Who would even pay for something like that?”
“Speaking of artists,” he murmured, “when are you going to let me hang one of yours in the living room?”
“Greg, don’t start.”
“You could actually sell those, Nora. People would pay real money.”
I laughed, the way I always laughed when he said things like that.
“Who would even pay for something like that? Come on.”
“You look tired, Nor.”
“You would, if you ever let anyone see them.” He nodded toward the hallway, where my canvases were stacked behind the linen closet door. “You know what you need? A place that’s actually yours. Big windows. Paint everywhere. Your name on the door.”
For half a second, I could see it.Then I picked up Toby’s abandoned cereal bowl.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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