Chapter 8 - Seeds of Healing
Running the center gave me my life back. Every day, the halls were filled with the sound of children laughing, paintbrushes swirling in jars of water, and parents finding a safe haven to cry, share, and breathe without judgment.
I spent my afternoons teaching watercolor classes to seven- and eight-year-olds from the oncology ward down at Northwestern Memorial. Among them was a little boy named Noah, seven years old, with huge green eyes and a mischievous smile that reminded me so much of Lily’s spirit. He had beaten leukemia twice and spent his hours painting bright blue butterflies that he stuck on my desk.
""Miss Claire,"" Noah said one afternoon, looking up with his paint-smeared nose, ""why do you always wear that little gold locket?""
I gently touched the small locket resting against my collarbone. Inside was a tiny photograph of Lily twirling in her pink birthday dress, along with a dried petal from the daisy she had picked for me the morning before the gala.
""It holds my favorite memory in the whole world, Noah,"" I said softly, smiling at him. ""It reminds me that love doesn't end just because someone goes to heaven.""
""My grandma is in heaven,"" Noah said solemnly, nodding his head. ""She paints the sunsets. I bet your girl helps her.""
A single, sweet tear rolled down my cheek, warm and peaceful. ""I think you're absolutely right.""
Later that evening, after the studio had emptied and the smell of lavender floor cleaner settled over the rooms, my attorney knocked on the glass door. He carried a registered manila folder from the federal prison in Indiana.
""Monthly correspondence, Claire,"" he said gently, placing it on the counter. ""You told me to hold them, but by law, I have to offer them to you once every quarter.""
May you like
Inside were three letters, handwritten on lined prison paper. No demands, no excuses, no pleading for contact. Just three short pages from Vincent, listing the books he was reading in the prison library, the updates he had received about the pediatric retreat in Door County, and a single sentence at the bottom of each page: I pray every hour that you are happy, and that she is dancing.
I didn't write back. I didn't need to. But I didn't burn them either. I placed them inside a wooden box in my office, acknowledging the past without allowing it to drag me backward. Vincent was serving his penance, and I was serving my future.
