My heart still felt heavy, but something about his expression no longer seemed cold. He seemed… nervous.
I left slowly. My legs were trembling, not only because of my age, but because of the fear I’d accumulated throughout the journey.
When I looked up at the house, I saw something that made my hands really start to tremble.
Above the door was a small wooden plaque. It read:
“Helena House”.
My name.
I put my hand to my mouth.
—I… don’t understand…
At that moment, the door opened.
The garden lights suddenly switched on and several voices shouted:
—Surprise!
I almost lost my balance.
There were former neighbors, some friends of mine from the parish, Livia’s work colleagues… and even two former colleagues from the hospital where I worked many years ago.
Everyone smiling.
Everyone applauding.
I looked at Livia, speechless.
She took my hands.
—Mom… you thought I was pushing you away. I know. I saw it in your eyes these last few days. But I had to keep it a secret.
Tears began to roll down my face.
—What is all this?
He took a deep breath.
—This house… is yours.
I let out a nervous laugh.
—Mine? Don’t say that, daughter…
“It’s yours, Mom. I bought it for you. It’s not a nursing home. It’s not a place to abandon you. It’s a place for you to live. In comfort. With a garden. With the studio you always dreamed of having.”
A study?
My heart skipped a beat.
He took my hand and led me inside.
The house was even more beautiful inside. Light wood floors, large windows, light curtains swaying in the evening breeze. It smelled of fresh paint mixed with flowers.
He led me to a room at the back.
When he opened the door, my legs almost gave way.
It was a painting workshop.
Blank canvases leaning against the wall. Brushes neatly arranged. New paints in every color. A large wooden table under a window overlooking the garden.
“I remember,” she said softly, “that you always said that when I finished my degree you would go back to painting. That it was your interrupted dream.”
I couldn’t speak.
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