Page 228 of From Rivals to I Do

how I reacted this morning, but I was feeling so overwhelmed with all the different emotions plaguing me. Margaret’s words only magnified the feelings

of inadequacy that have consumed me since moving in with Jackson.

With Jackson and Henry’s departure, the house falls into a deafening silence. The emptiness envelops me, amplifying the turmoil within. I crumble to the

floor, my tears flowing like a torrential downpour, releasing the pent-up frustration and anguish that have consumed me.

Just when I feel like I'm drowning in my sea of despair, my phone rings. I reach for it, my trembling fingers grasping the device as if it holds the answers to

the turmoil in my soul. The caller ID reveals the name "James," my trusted art dealer. With a mix of anticipation and trepidation, I take a deep breath and

answer the call.

"Hello, James," I say, my voice betraying the fragility within me. "What's the news?"

There is a momentary pause and when James finally speaks, his voice is laced with disappointment. "Maya, I hate to tell you this, but your recent

paintings... they haven't been selling as we had hoped. The response from buyers has been lackluster, and I'm afraid we won't be able to proceed with

the exhibition we planned."

A surge of frustration and helplessness rises within me, threatening to engulf me entirely. I clench my free hand into a fist, my knuckles turning white as I

struggle to find the right words. "But... but I poured my heart and soul into those paintings," I manage to choke out, my voice quivering with raw emotion.

"I thought they had something special, something that would resonate with people."

James sighs, his tone sympathetic yet tinged with resignation. "I know, Maya. Your passion and talent are undeniable. But art is subjective, and sometimes even the most brilliant creations can go unnoticed. It's a tough industry, and success doesn't come easily."

The tears, momentarily abated, return with a vengeance. The news strikes me like a blow to the gut, intensifying the turmoil within me. I slump against the wall, defeated and drained. Is there no end to this cascade of disappointments?

"I don't know what to do," I whisper brokenly, my voice barely audible. "I've put everything into my art, and now it feels like it's all for nothing. I really looked forward to this exhibition."

There is a softness in James' voice as he responds, his words a lifeline in the darkness. "Maya, this setback doesn't define you as an artist. It's a

momentary setback, a chance to regroup and find new inspiration. Take the time you need to heal and rediscover your creative spirit. Remember, true

artists endure and rise above the challenges they face."

His words only aggravate my mind’s agitation. As I end the call, I find myself adrift in a sea of uncertainty. I feel as if the ground beneath me has

crumbled, leaving me suspended in an abyss of uncertainty. Frustrated and sad, I walk into the kitchen wondering how I can recover from this setback. I

take a deep breath and reach under the cabinet to grab dish liquid and notice tucked away in the corner a half-bottle of alcohol.

As I reached for the bottle, I noticed behind the bottle were multiple bottles of open alcohol, some with dust on them and some without. I know Jackson

does not drink a lot, at least he does not when we are together, and begin to wonder if these bottles belong to his deceased wife. I began to look under

more cabinets and there were hidden open whisky bottles all over the house, even the bathroom. This is very unsettling for me and makes no sense, I

could not help but wonder “Why are these bottles all over the house, and what if Henry were to find them?”

I angrily started snatching every bottle and placed them on the kitchen counter, wanting an explanation from Jackson and consolation within. The day

seemed like a fog, and I spent the day absorbed in movies and an old novel I read previously, lacking the motivation to paint or do anything productive.

Chapter thirteen

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