Chapter 4 - The Face in the Painting
The morning light broke through the yellowed lace curtains of the Somerville apartment, casting soft gold rectangles across the wooden floorboards.
Ethan had not left. He had spent the remaining hours of the night sitting on the worn fabric sofa in the living room, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet rhythm of the house. Grace had stayed in her room with Lily, the door cracked open just an inch.
At 7:00 AM, a small pair of bare feet patted softly across the hallway floorboards.
Ethan sat up immediately, his suit jacket wrinkled, his hair messy, his eyes bloodshot.
Lily stood in the doorway of the hallway. She was wearing pink footie pajamas covered in small white daisies. She held a battered brown teddy bear with one missing button eye under her arm.
She stopped when she saw him. Her large, gray-blue eyes widened in surprise.
Ethan held his breath. He didn't move. He felt like a man in front of a wild, delicate creature that might bolt at the slightest sound.
"Hello, Lily," Ethan said, his voice rough and low, trying his best to sound warm and gentle.
Lily didn't run. She took three cautious steps into the living room, her small toes curling against the cool hardwood floor. She tilted her head, inspecting him with intense curiosity.
"You're the man from the gallery," she said, her voice clear and sweet. "The one who made Mommy cry."
Ethan felt a sharp pang in his chest. "I didn't mean to make your mommy cry, Lily. I... I was just very surprised to see her."
"Why?" Lily asked, coming closer. She stopped near the edge of the rug, about four feet away from the sofa. "Do you know my mommy?"
Ethan looked down at her small, perfect face. He saw his own chin, his dark eyebrows, the tiny dimple on her left cheek. The urge to pull her into his arms was almost overwhelming, but he forced himself to stay seated.
"I used to know her very well," Ethan said softly. "A long time ago. Before you were born."
Lily looked at his tailored shirt, his expensive watch, and his unlaced leather shoes. "Are you rich?"
Ethan let out a quiet, breathless laugh. "Some people say that."
"Can you buy me a real pony?" she asked innocently.
"Lily Grace," Grace’s voice came from the hallway.
Grace walked out, wearing clean jeans and a green sweater, her hair combed back. She carried a basket of laundry in her arms. Her face softened as she looked at her daughter, but when her eyes flicked to Ethan, her guard went up again instantly.
"Go wash your hands and face, sweetie. Breakfast is in ten minutes," Grace said.
Lily looked at Ethan one last time, gave him a small, mysterious smile, and scampered down the hallway toward the bathroom.
Ethan stood up from the sofa, smoothing down his wrinkled shirt. "Grace, we need to establish a plan."
"A plan for what?" Grace asked, setting the laundry basket on a chair.
"For us. For Lily," Ethan said, walking toward her. "I am her father, Grace. I want to be part of her life. I want to provide for her."
"We don't need your money, Ethan," Grace said coldly. "We've done just fine for five years without a single dollar from Hale Capital."
"You're renting a second-floor apartment with a leaky roof and living month-to-month!" Ethan said, his tone rising before he caught himself and lowered his voice. "Grace, I have the means to give her the best life imaginable. The best schools, the best medical care, private tutors, travel—anything she could ever dream of! Why would you deny her that out of pride?"
"It isn't pride!" Grace snapped, stepping closer to him. "It's stability! Lily doesn't know about boardrooms, family trust funds, or Boston high society! She knows this neighborhood, her friends at the local preschool, and her mother! If you drop into her life like a hurricane, throwing millions of dollars around and trying to buy her affection with ponies, you will break her world!"
Ethan swallowed hard. "I don't want to buy her affection. I want her to know me."
Grace looked at him, her dark eyes searching his exhausted face. She saw the genuine pain in his eyes, the desperation of a man who had suddenly realized he had missed the most important five years of his life.
She walked over to the easel in the corner of the room, reached up, and pulled off the white sheet covering the canvas.
Ethan gasped.
It was a portrait. But it wasn't a portrait of a client or a landscape.
It was a painting of Ethan.
He was sitting on a wooden bench in the Public Garden, sunbeams filtering through the willow trees behind him, a small, gentle smile on his face. He looked younger, unburdened, the way he used to look six years ago when they would spend Sunday mornings walking through the park with cheap coffee in paper cups.
In the bottom corner of the painting, a tiny, four-year-old girl with dark curls was painted sitting beside him on the bench, her small hand reaching out to touch his sleeve.
Ethan stared at the painting, his eyes stinging with fresh tears. "When did you paint this?"
"Last year," Grace whispered, looking at the canvas. "Lily asked me what her daddy looked like. I didn't have any photos of you—I burned them all the night I left Boston. So I painted you from memory."
She turned to face him, her voice barely audible over the sound of the kettle beginning to whistle in the kitchen.
"I never taught her to hate you, Ethan," Grace said quietly. "I told her that her daddy was a very important man who worked far away, but that he loved art, loved the rain, and had the same eyes she did. I didn't keep you away out of hatred. I kept you away because I thought you didn't want us."
May you like
Ethan walked up to the painting, his trembling fingers hovering just millimeters over the dry oil paint where his daughter's tiny hand was rendered beside his sleeve.
"I want you," Ethan whispered, turning to Grace, his voice raw with pure truth. "God help me, Grace. I've wanted you every single day for six years."
