Her mother would come over and keep our son while she spent a few hours in her art studio, reconnecting with a part of herself she had neglected for far too long.
“I forgot how much I love this,” she told me one evening, showing me a canvas she had been working on. “It feels good to create again.”
Her bond with our son has also begun to repair.
I’d see them reading together or her teaching him how to draw basic shapes with crayons. The distance that had previously separated them was gradually closing.
He seemed happier, more calm, as if he sensed Mommy’s return.
Our family was not perfect, but it was healing.
Together.
