Then one afternoon, while searching for an air pump in the garage, I stumbled upon something shocking. Dozens of paintings were spread across the floor—grotesque images of me in chains, bleeding, and lying in a coffin. My stomach churned. Is this how Lexi saw me after everything I’d done for her?
That evening at dinner, I couldn’t contain my anger. “Lexi, what are those paintings?” I demanded.
Her face went pale. “You saw them?”
“Yes, and they’re disturbing. Is that really how you see me?”
She sighed, her voice breaking. “It wasn’t about you. It was about my pain. I was angry and needed a way to express it.”
“I think it’s time for you to leave,” I said quietly, unable to shake the images from my mind.
Lexi’s eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t argue. The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter. She didn’t say much, and neither did I. Before she left, I handed her some money. She hesitated, then took it.
Weeks passed, and I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Not just the disturbing paintings, but the connection we’d shared. Then, one day, a package arrived at my door. Inside was a new painting of me—calm and peaceful. Attached was a note with Lexi’s phone number.
Nervously, I dialed her number. “Lexi, it’s me. I got your painting—it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I wasn’t sure if you’d like it.”
“I’ve been thinking,” I continued. “Maybe we could start over? Have dinner?”
After a pause, she replied, “I’d like that.”
Lexi told me she’d used the money to buy new clothes and found a job. She was even moving into her own apartment soon. As I hung up, I smiled, realizing this might be a new beginning for both of us.