Page 222 of From Rivals to I Do

Later that evening, after I return with Henry from the playground, I find Maya seated at the kitchen table, a sketchpad spread before her. Her fingers dance across the paper, coaxing life into the pencil strokes. I lean against the doorway, watching her in quiet admiration.

"You're incredibly talented," I say, breaking the silence.

Maya's eyes lift from her work, surprise evident in their depths. "Thank you. Art has always been my way of expressing myself, of making sense of the world."

I step closer, my curiosity piqued. "Tell me about this piece. What's the story behind it?"

A flicker of hesitation crosses her face before she takes a deep breath as if gathering the courage to share a piece of herself. "It's about embracing vulnerability," she reveals, her voice tinged with a mixture of hesitation and resolve. "I've always struggled with letting people in, with showing my true self. But through art, I've found a way to bridge that gap, to unveil the parts of me I've kept hidden."

"I understand," I confess, my voice laced with a hint of vulnerability. "In my line of work, I'm expected to be strong, to hold it together no matter what. But sometimes, it's exhausting. Being here with you, it's allowed me to let my guard down, to reveal my own vulnerabilities."

Maya's eyes meet mine, and in their depths, I see a reflection of my own desires. A smile tugs at the corners of her lips, a silent agreement passing between us. In that moment, as our hands entwine and our hearts align, I realize that our journey has only just begun. Together, we will navigate the complexities of love, family, and the fragile beauty of two souls finding solace in each other's arms.

Chapter ten

Chapter Ten

Isit cross-legged on the floor of our living room, sorting through a box of old photographs that I stumbled upon in the back of a closet. Memories from

Jackson's past spill out before me, frozen moments captured on faded paper. I flip through the photos absentmindedly until my eyes land on a picture

frame sitting in the box. Curiosity pulls me closer, and I pick it up, my heart skipping a beat as I take a close look at it—a picture of Jackson with his wife,

Emily, their smiles radiating happiness.

A pang of insecurity shoots through my chest. I find myself comparing my reflection in the mirror to Emily's image in the photograph, wondering if I could

ever measure up to the woman who once held his heart. My fingers trace the edges of the photograph, and I feel the weight of my own insecurities press

down upon me.

My mind begins to swirl with questions. Am I enough for him? Can I ever measure up to the memories of their past? I try to shake off the feelings,

reminding myself that this is all a façade, a plan to protect Henry. But deep down, the insecurities linger, whispering doubts that threaten to overshadow

my newfound happiness.

Days pass, and the weight of my insecurities continues to tug at my spirit. I spend hours in my home studio, painting furiously, trying to drown out the doubts with brushstrokes and vibrant colors.

One afternoon, I find myself absorbed in the strokes of a paintbrush against the canvas. The rhythmic dance between colors and emotions carries me

away, the outside world fading into the background. Lost in the flow of creativity, I fail to notice Henry's presence until his voice pierces through the haze.

"Maya, Mom used to paint with me," he says, his voice tinged with longing.

My heart tightens at his words, a pang of guilt lacing my chest. I put down the paintbrush and turned to face him, feeling brokenhearted. I cannot imagine

how Henry must miss his mother. In that moment a sense of insecurity arises within, wondering if I can ever give him the love and attention he will need.

Jackson and Henry miss her so much, I can't help but wonder can I live in her shadows”.

"Henry," I say, my voice gentle yet laden with remorse. "I am sure she was a beautiful painter; you will have to show me some of the paintings you and your mom did, I would love to see them.”

Henry's eyes meet mine, and I can see the sadness and yearning reflected in his gaze. It breaks my heart to think how he must long for his mother and the connection they once shared.

"Yes, I would like that Maya, " he whispers, his voice filled with understanding beyond his years. “My mom would have loved to see your paintings too."

Guilt washes over me, mingling with the insecurities already gnawing at my confidence. Am I doing a good enough job as a mother figure? Can I ever fill the void left by his late mom?

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