The last was her favourite painting, a watercolour of me sitting at our kitchen window sketching two birds building a nest in the maple tree outside.
She captured every detail, from the morning sunlight in my mussed hair to the way I bite my lip as I concentrate. It was the last thing she drew before she got sick.
‘Why did you paint me drawing birds?’ I asked when she first showed me the painting.
She smiled, gingerly touching the dried paint. ‘Because you’ve always been like those birds, sweetheart. Always creating something beautiful, no matter what life throws your way.’
Soon we found a gold mine on the Internet. An anonymous buyer offered us a fortune, much more than we expected. And Mum couldn’t believe her luck.
‘See, Evie? Even when things seem the bleakest, there’s always someone willing to help settle the nest.’
Three weeks later, she was gone. The hospital room was quiet except for the slow beeping of the monitors.
‘I’m so sorry, baby,’ she whispered her last words, turning to me. ‘Stay strong.’
The doctors said she wasn’t in pain at the end. I hoped they were right.
Time slipped away like grains of sand. On Christmas Eve, I was alone in the basement, watching the shadows dance on the wall from the headlights of passing cars.
I didn’t bother with decorations. What was the point? The only Christmas card I got was from the landlord reminding me that rent was due on the first of the month.
No one knew where I lived. I made sure of that. After my mum died, I couldn’t stand the pitying looks, awkward conversations and well-meaning but painful questions about how I was ‘keeping up’.
But then a loud knock on the door startled me.
I approached cautiously and peered through the peephole to see a man in an expensive suit holding a gift box with a perfect bow. His coat was probably worth more than three months of my rent.
‘Can I help you?’ I called out through the door.
‘Miss Evie? I have a parcel for you.’
I opened the door ajar without removing the chain. ‘A gift? For me?’
He smiled politely. ‘Yes, ma’am, this is for you,’ he said, holding out the box. ‘There’s also an invitation in here. I assure you, it will soon become clear.’
The box was heavy for its size, wrapped in heavy paper that crumpled softly when I picked it up. I found an elegant cream envelope. But it was what lay beneath it that made my heart stop – Mum’s last painting. There I was, forever frozen in time at our old kitchen window, sketching birds on a spring morning.
‘Wait!’ I exclaimed. ‘Who are you? Why are you returning this painting?’
The man looked up. ‘You’ll get answers, don’t worry. My boss would like to meet with you. Do you accept the invitation?’
I looked at the painting, then back at him. ‘When?’
‘Now, if you’re ready. The car is waiting.’
The car pulled up to a mansion that looked like something out of a holiday film, with twinkling lights and wreaths in every window. Fresh snow crunched under my worn boots as the man led me down the driveway.
I pressed myself against the painting, feeling out of place.
Inside the mansion, a grand staircase soared upward, and the banisters were festooned with garlands. The man led me into a warmly lit study, where a fire crackled in the stone fireplace. And there, rising from her chair, sat Mrs Peterson – the same woman I had rescued on that flight two years ago.
‘Hello, Evie,’ she said softly. ‘It’s been a long time.’
I froze, clutching the picture to my chest. ‘Mrs Peterson?’
She gestured for me to sit in the leather chair by the fireplace. ‘I saw your mother’s work on the website of a local art gallery,’ she explained. ‘When I saw your painting, I knew I had to have it. Something about the way you captured those birds…’ She fell silent, her gaze becoming detached. ‘It reminded me so much of my daughter.’
‘You bought my mother’s painting?’
She nodded. ‘I found out about your mother’s diagnosis and even talked to the doctors,’ she continued, her voice trailing off. ‘I offered them any kind of money just to save her. But some things…’ She wiped away a tear. ‘Some things are beyond the reach of money.’
‘How did you find me?’ I whispered.
‘I have my ways,’ she said with a small smile. ‘I contacted the hospital and convinced them to give your address, given the circumstances. I wanted to make sure you were taken care of even if I couldn’t save your mother.’
‘Why did you go to such extreme measures for me?’
Mrs Peterson moved over to sit next to me. ‘Because I lost my daughter to cancer last year. She was about your age.’ She gingerly touched the picture frame. ‘When I saw this ad online – my mother’s last work being sold to pay for her treatment – I knew I had to help. Even if I was too late.’
I felt tears rolling down my cheeks. ‘With the money from that painting, we lived together for another three weeks.’