My hand is trembling as I slide it out of its hiding place. I hold my breath as I turn it around. I know what it’s going to be even before I let the sheet drop to the floor, but I still start to cry the moment I see it, my hand shooting to my mouth to stifle my gasp. It’s my painting. The one I sold for twelve-thousand dollars. The one I painted during the darkest point in my life. The one that pulled me from the bottom and revived my love for painting.
