Chapter 3
"Go ahead and eat," Regina said.
The studio door was left slightly open. Davy pressed his face to the crack, watching Regina at the big wooden table, twisting open each dusty paint tube to check them.
The sunset streamed through the lattice window, and the dust floating in the air shimmered like golden sand.
He pushed the door wider and stepped inside. "Mom, are you going to paint? Alma said..."
"What did she say?" Regina asked.
Davy admitted, feeling a little uneasy, "She said that for housewives, painting is just pointless. But I think if you want to paint, you could just do it for fun."
He barely whispered the word "fun," with that innocent, almost cruel honesty only kids had.
Regina paused, her lips twitched. "You're right."
She carefully put everything back where it belonged and closed the sandalwood box with a soft click.
Davy suddenly felt a pang of disappointment. He almost wished Regina would scold him like she used to, stern and strict, instead of acting like this.
Regina walked over and ruffled Davy's hair. "By the way, your dad and Alma are taking you to the aquarium next week. Remember to bring a jacket, it gets pretty chilly in there."
"Wait, how did you know?" Davy asked, a little surprised.
Regina said, sounding casual, "Your dad messaged me. Just go and have a good time."
Davy started to say something, but ended up staying silent.
Dinner tasted like cardboard, and even his game console couldn't hold his attention. He sprawled on the living room couch, half-listening as Regina talked on the phone in the study.
Words like "grad school," "advisor," and "portfolio" drifted out, all unfamiliar to him.
Later that night, Davy woke up needing to pee. As he passed the master bedroom, he heard hushed voices inside.
"Don't worry, I'll make sure Davy's child support gets paid on time. As for the rest, you don't need to bother," Regina said quietly.
There was a brief silence.
Regina added, "Alma's pregnant? Congratulations. Boy or girl, doesn't matter, just hope the baby is healthy.
"You're right. I'm out of the picture now, so I shouldn't be worrying about these things."
The call ended. Davy hid in the shadows, his heart pounding. Since Alma was pregnant, he wondered if he was going to have a brother or sister soon.
He tiptoed back to the guest room, eyes wide in the darkness. On the nightstand sat the origami crane Regina had folded for him, its wings glowing faintly in the moonlight.
He used to think it was childish, but now he grabbed it and clutched it tightly in his hand.
The next morning, Davy woke up to the smell of breakfast. On the table were golden toast and milk.
Regina was reading a thick art book, her notebook covered in Luirendarian notes lying open beside her.
Davy said, gathering his courage, "Mom, if I want to learn to paint someday, would you teach me?"
Regina looked up from her book and smiled. "When you really want to learn, you can find a good teacher."
She didn't offer to teach him or tell him to focus on academics.
Davy lowered his head and quietly finished his food. On his way out, he looked back.
Regina was already buried in her book again, the morning light outlining her softly. She seemed so close, yet so far away.
He closed the door gently behind him.
Regina set down her pen and gazed out the window at the sycamore leaves drifting down.
She thought of Davy from her previous life, the one who had asked her to give her blessing at his wedding, and then remembered how Davy had just clutched that origami crane.
Letting go wasn't the same as giving up, it meant understanding that some paths had to be walked alone. She had her own journey ahead.
On the corner of her painting table, the prospectus for the Ithaerynian Academy of Arts's graduate program lay open, a page marked with a red circle around the application deadline, next month.
At the Ithaerynian Academy of Arts's grad school interview, the scent of turpentine hung in the air.
Regina was seventh in line. The six ahead of her were all in their early twenties, some nervously rubbing their hands, others going over their portfolios again and again.
She sat quietly on the bench in the hallway, a simple wood box resting on her lap.
"Next, Regina Chandler," the voice called out.
She pushed the door open, and all five examiners turned their eyes to her. The white-haired man in the center adjusted his glasses.
He was Derek Manning, the master of traditional painting at the academy.
"Thirty-five?" The female examiner on the left glanced at Regina's file. "It's been thirteen years since you graduated from undergrad?"
Regina replied, setting the wood box on the long table, "Yes, but I've never stopped painting."
She opened the box and unfurled a full four-foot sheet of paper. A half-open peony took center stage, its petals layered like clouds, the edges traced with delicate gold lines.
The most striking part was the stamen, painted in a unique warm orange blended from cinnabar, carmine, and gold dust. It looked as if a smoldering fire was hidden inside.
Derek suddenly stood up, leaning in, eyes wide, to examine the painting.
He pointed to a half-withered leaf in the lower left corner, his voice trembling. "This petal shape... Is that the 'striking tip' technique? This method has been lost for ages. How did you manage to learn it?"