Een maand eerder hing er een doordringende geur van olieverf en terpentine in het atelier. Licht viel schuin naar binnen door de gebarsten bovenramen en wierp stoffige gouden rechthoeken over de gebeitste houten vloer. Mijn nieuwste doek torende boven me uit, groter dan ikzelf, een chaotische brij van kleuren die nog niet wist wat het wilde zijn – het verhaal van mijn leven.
Er lagen overal vodden, oude koffiekopjes op de vensterbank, een radio met een of andere indie-playlist die klonk alsof hij in een kast was opgenomen. Ik was al uren aan het werk, verdwaald in die trance waarin mijn lichaam nog wel beweegt, maar mijn geest afdwaalt naar kleuren en vormen en het geluid van het penseel dat als een fluistering het doek raakt.
Mijn telefoon trilde op de werkbank naast me.
Ik negeerde het eerst. Iedereen die me goed genoeg kende om te bellen, wist ook dat ze niet moesten bellen als ik aan het werk was. Het zoemde weer. En nog eens. De trillingen irriteerden me tot ik zuchtte en de borstel neerlegde.
Toen ik mijn vingers aan een doek afveegde en naar mijn telefoon greep, lichtte het scherm op met een naam die ik in die context al lange tijd niet meer had gezien.
Mama.
Mijn moeder belde me niet. Ze stuurde korte, bondige berichtjes, alsof ze werkmails beantwoordde.
You still at that studio?
Don’t be late for Thanksgiving.
Your cousin’s engagement party is Sunday. Try to look put together.
That kind of thing.
Calls were reserved for emergencies or special occasions—which in our family meant something had gone wrong. A scandal, a death, or a social event Mom felt I was in grave danger of embarrassing her at.
I hesitated, then hit accept.
“Hello?”
“Stephanie!” Her voice came through the speaker unnaturally bright and sugary, like artificial sweetener. “I caught you at a good time, didn’t I?”
I looked around at the paint-smeared chaos of my studio. “Uh… sure.”
“Well, your father and I were talking,” she went on, the way people say, we’ve come to a verdict. “And we realized your birthday is coming up. Twenty-eight. Can you imagine?” She laughed lightly, like we’d been sharing warm, nostalgic conversations about my childhood for years. “We thought it was time the family got together to celebrate.”
I blinked. My birthday?
In twenty-eight years, my birthdays had been, at best, an afterthought. A card placed on the kitchen table before they rushed off to some charity gala. At thirteen, I’d had a cupcake with one candle stuck in it, bought last-minute from a grocery store. At eighteen, they’d forgotten entirely and remembered three days later when Mom saw the date on a credit card statement.
I leaned against the workbench, leaving a faint streak of blue on the edge. “Celebrate?” I repeated slowly.
“Yes,” she said. “We’ve booked the Regency. Private room. Just family. Saturday at eight. Don’t be late.”
“The Regency?” I blurted out.
It was the fanciest restaurant in town, the place my parents reserved for anniversaries, networking dinners, and impressing people with their money. I had once snuck in there with Grandma for dessert when I was sixteen, sharing a slice of cheesecake while Mom and Dad were in the main dining room schmoozing some business partners.
“Yes, the Regency,” Mom said, irritation flickering under her sweetness. “I’d think you’d show a little more gratitude, Stephanie. We’re making a big effort here.”
“I… yeah. No, I—of course. It’s just… unexpected.”
“Well,” she said briskly, “people change. Families grow closer. Your father and I feel it’s time to put effort into these things. Anyway, we’ll see you there. Wear something nice.”
She hung up before I could respond.
For a long moment I just stood in the middle of the studio, phone in my hand, staring at the paint-splattered floor.
Families grow closer.
I could count on one hand the number of meaningful conversations my parents and I had had in the last decade. Most of them involved some version of Stop wasting your time, art isn’t a real career, or You’re making yourself look ridiculous, Stephanie.
And yet, for all the logical reasons I had to doubt it, a small, stupid, stubborn spark of hope flared in my chest.
Maybe they’d finally noticed I was still around. Maybe Mom had realized that her friends’ Instagram-perfect adult children with their polished careers and smiling family photos weren’t the whole universe. Maybe Dad had realized that “art” didn’t mean “failure” by default.
Maybe this birthday would be different.
I set the phone down carefully and picked up my brush again. The colors on the canvas seemed a little brighter.
