Chapter 8 - The Portrait on the Wall
That afternoon, I brought a large wooden crate up from the back of my SUV and carried it into the living room.
Grace watched from the doorway as I pulled away the bubble wrap to reveal the large oil painting of Isabelle that had hung in the Long Island mansion’s central hall.
"You brought it," Grace said softly.
"It belongs where the girls can see it," I replied, leaning the heavy frame against the stone fireplace.
In the painting, Isabelle was laughing, her head turned toward the sunlight, her eyes bright and alive.
Olivia, Sophie, and Nora walked over, standing side-by-side in front of the canvas. For a long moment, none of them spoke.
Then Nora reached out, her small hand pressing against the bottom corner of the heavy wooden frame.
"She looks happy," Nora whispered.
"She was," I said, walking over and kneeling beside my daughters, wrapping my arms around their small shoulders. "And she would be very proud of you girls. And very proud of Grace."
May you like
Grace stood by the window, the sunlight catching the soft brown waves of her hair. She looked at us—a father and three little girls who were finally free from the ghosts of the past—and smiled.
"She’s not the only one," Grace murmured.
