Chapter 8
Dad got out first.
I stayed in the car, looking at the cardboard tube in Tara’s hands. I wanted to see what was inside. I did not want her to think that finding one more thing meant we could start over.
She spoke to Dad through the open window.
“I should have called. I was nearby and thought Maya would want it before she leaves.”
Dad glanced back at me.
“Would you like me to take it?”
I nodded.
Tara handed him the tube and stepped back. She did not try to reach my door.
“I’m sorry I came without asking,” she said.
I lowered the window a little.
“Thank you for bringing it.”
“You’re welcome.”
Dad took the drawing inside. Tara returned to her car.
In my room, I unrolled the paper.
Mom had drawn me at about nine years old, sitting at her desk with my hair falling into my eyes. I was holding a pencil with both hands, concentrating so hard my mouth was open.
Beneath the sketch she had written, Maya, making her own way.
I had never seen it before.
Dad helped me put it in a frame. We hung it above the desk that night.
The next morning, he told me he had called Tara after she left.
“I said she needs to arrange any contact with me beforehand,” he said. “And she isn’t to visit you at the program.”
“Did she agree?”
“Yes.”
I believed Dad would enforce it.
A week later, he drove me to the residence. Elena came with us because she wanted to see the studios and because I wanted her there.
My room was small. Priya had arrived first and left the bed by the window for me.
“Is this okay?” she asked.
“It’s perfect.”
Dad carried my suitcase upstairs. Elena helped arrange the pencils in a jar. When they were ready to leave, my chest tightened.
Dad saw it.
“You can call tonight,” he said.
“I know.”
“I’m proud of you.”
I hugged him hard.
For the first few days, I was exhausted by new faces and long studio hours. Then I began looking forward to them.
Priya liked working with ink. I preferred pencil. We traded techniques and argued gently about whose hands were messier at the end of each day.
Our first project was to draw a place that had changed meaning for us. I drew my bedroom door. In the first sketch, it was barely open. In the second, sunlight crossed the floor from the window behind it.
I didn’t tell the class the whole story when I showed my work. I told them enough: I had begun to feel at home in my room again.
The instructor asked what made the second drawing different.
“I knew I could say who was allowed inside,” I answered.
After class, Priya asked if I wanted to talk. I told her about the search for the fifty dollars. She listened without interrupting.
“That sounds awful,” she said.
“It was.”
“Do you feel safe at home now?”
“Yes. Dad’s there, and Tara’s staying somewhere else.”
The simple question made me notice that my answer was true.
On family weekend, Dad arrived with Elena and her mother. We toured the studios and ate lunch outside. Dad stood in front of my drawings so long I teased him about blocking other visitors.
“I’m looking,” he said.
“I can tell.”
That afternoon, he told me he and Tara had decided to separate. He had met her with their counselor and told her he couldn’t rebuild their marriage while still discovering lies.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m sad. I’m also sure this is what I need.”
I hugged him.
“You don’t have to decide whether to stay away from her for my sake,” I said.
“I’m making my own decision. I should have listened to you sooner, but that isn’t the only reason.”
I understood that he wanted me to stop carrying the weight of his marriage.
When the program ended, I came home with a portfolio full of work and two new friends. Dad had cleaned Mom’s desk and put fresh paper on it. My room was exactly as I had left it.
There was one change.
On my door, he had hung a small wooden sign with my name on it. He had made it himself, uneven letters and all.
“You can take it down,” he said. “I got carried away.”
I left it where it was.
That evening, while I unpacked, I found Tara’s second letter in my drawer. I read it once more.
Then I wrote a short note of my own.
May you like
I told her I had received Mom’s drawing. I thanked her for returning it. I also told her that I wasn’t ready for a relationship and did not want any more letters for now.
Dad read it only because I asked him to. He mailed it the next day.
