![]() ![]() I don’t care what optimistic story you’ve invented about him the last thing he’ll want is his daughter moving in with him, interfering with his work and spoiling his latest romance.” “Your father hasn’t had anything to do with you since you were a child. I match everything against my chart of acrylic paints. Bronze yellow, I decide, with a touch of brilliant yellow green. A few of the leaves have already turned yellow. Honestly, Mom, you know everything I want to paint is right here.” I look out the small trailer window at the line of birch trees. “He’s my father, and staying with him is the only way I can go to art school. I understand, but I’m going to go anyhow. She’s talking about my dad, her emotions bubbling over with a combination of hatred for him, fear for me, and anger with herself for not having the money to send me to art school. “I’ve spent the last twelve years of my life protecting you from that man.” ![]() We’re both standing in the kitchen of our trailer, which means we’re inches from each other. Right now I see my mom as a painting by the artist de Kooning, a scribbled woman, all angry eyes and open mouth with sharp teeth. ![]()
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