The last painting she sold was her favourite — a watercolour of me sitting at the kitchen window, drawing two birds building a nest in the maple tree outside.
She captured every detail, from the morning sun in my tousled hair to how I always bit my lip when I concentrated. It was the last painting she did before she fell ill.
‘Why did you draw me drawing birds?’ I asked her when she showed me the painting for the first time.
She smiled, gently touching the dried paint. ‘Because you’ve always been like those birds, dear. Always building something beautiful, despite all the difficulties in life.’
Soon we found luck on the internet. An anonymous buyer offered us a fortune, much more than we expected. Mum couldn’t believe her luck.
‘See, Evie? Even when everything seems dark, there’s always someone willing to help build a nest.’
Three weeks later, she was gone. The hospital room was quiet, except for the slowing beep of the monitor.
‘I’m sorry, baby,’ she whispered to me with her last words. ‘Be strong.’
The doctors said she didn’t feel any pain at the end. I hoped they were right.
Time slipped away like sand through my fingers. On Christmas Eve, I found myself alone in my basement, watching the shadows dance on the wall from the headlights of passing cars.
I hadn’t bothered to decorate. What was the point? The only Christmas card I received was from my landlord, reminding me that the rent was due on the first.
No one knew where I lived. I made sure it stayed that way. After my mother died, I couldn’t cope with the pitying looks, awkward conversations and painful questions about how I was ‘holding up’.
But then there was a loud knock at the door.
I approached cautiously, peeking through the peephole, and saw a man in an expensive suit holding a gift box with a perfect bow. His coat probably cost more than three months of my rent.
‘Can I help you?’ I called through the door.
‘Miss Evi? I have a delivery for you.’
I opened the door slightly, keeping the chain on. ‘A gift? For me?’
He smiled politely. ‘Yes, madam, it’s for you,’ he said, handing her the box. ‘There’s also an invitation inside. I assure you, everything will become clear very soon.’
The box was heavy for its size, wrapped in thick paper that rustled softly when I picked it up. I found an elegant cream-coloured envelope. But what lay beneath it made my heart skip a beat — my mother’s last painting. There I was, frozen forever in the past by our old kitchen window, painting birds in the spring.
‘Wait!’ I called out. ‘Who are you? Why are you returning this painting?’
The man looked up. ‘You’ll get your answers, don’t worry. My boss wants to meet you. Will you accept the invitation?’
I looked at the painting, then at him. ‘When?’
‘Right now, if you’re ready. The car is waiting.’
The car took me to a mansion that looked like something out of a Christmas film, with twinkling lights and wreaths on every window. The snow crunched under my old boots as the man led me down the path.
I held the painting tightly, feeling completely out of place.
Inside was a large staircase decorated with garlands, leading to a hall with a fireplace where a fire crackled merrily. And there, rising from her chair, was Mrs Peterson — the very woman I had saved on the flight two years ago.
‘Hello, Evie,’ she said softly. ‘It’s been a long time.’
I froze, holding the painting tightly. ‘Mrs Peterson?’
She gestured for me to sit down in the armchair by the fireplace. ‘I saw your mother’s work at the local gallery online,’ she explained. ‘When I saw the painting with you in it, I knew I had to buy it. Something about the way you painted those birds…’ She paused, her eyes clouding over. ‘It reminded me of my daughter.’
‘You bought my mother’s painting?’
She nodded. ‘I found out about your mother’s diagnosis and even spoke to the doctors,’ she continued, her voice trembling. ‘I offered them any amount of money to save her. But some things…’ She wiped away a tear. ‘Some things money can’t buy.’
‘How did you find me?’ I whispered.
‘I have my ways,’ she said with a slight smile. ‘I contacted the hospital and persuaded them to share your address with me, 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 lengths for me?’
Mrs Peterson sat down next to me. ‘Because I lost my daughter to cancer last year. She was about your age.’ She gently touched the frame of the painting. ‘When I saw this work online — the last painting my mother sold to pay for her treatment — I knew I had to help. Even if it was too late.’
I felt tears rolling down my cheeks. ‘The money from this painting gave us three more weeks together.’
‘My daughter Rebecca loved art too,’ Mrs Peterson’s voice trembled. ‘She would have loved this painting. Its symbolism… building something together, even when everything seems destroyed.’