I remember the first time I really saw her. Not just observed, but saw. It was in Professor Davies’ elective, “Art as Reflection.” She was always there, hunched in the back, a ghost. Quiet. Too quiet. Her clothes were always the same, slightly faded, clean but worn. Her hair, perpetually pulled back in a messy bun, always seemed to be escaping. I used to catch myself staring, not out of malice, but a kind of detached curiosity. Why bother coming to class if you’re just going to sleep through it? I’d think, feeling a prickle of annoyance at her apparent indifference. She never volunteered, never spoke unless directly called upon, and even then, her answers were clipped, barely audible. I just assumed she was lazy. Disinterested. Maybe a little resentful of being there. A waste of space, really, when someone else could have had her spot.
The big project was announced midway through the semester: a personal piece, any medium, reflecting “the landscape of your inner world.” Professor Davies, with her gentle smile and radiating empathy, emphasized vulnerability. I started my detailed sculpture of intertwined roots and branches, representing my own complex family history, feeling proud of its symbolism. I barely spared a thought for the ghost in the back row, probably just going to draw some stick figures.
Then came presentation day.
One by one, students unveiled their souls. Beautiful, profound, funny, heartbreaking. And then it was her turn. She walked to the front, hands shoved deep into her pockets, eyes fixed on the floor. She placed her piece on the podium.
A car in a driveway | Source: Pexels
It wasn’t a stick figure.
It was a dilapidated shoebox, meticulously transformed. The outside was painted a dull, crumbling grey, resembling concrete. Cracks snaked across the surface, and tiny, almost invisible bars were painted over a cutout window. But the lid… the lid was what hit me first. It was covered in miniature drawings, crude but urgent, of tiny figures, children mostly, clutching each other. One hand-drawn child, smaller than the rest, had a bright, almost neon yellow crayon sun drawn directly onto its chest, like a beacon.
She lifted the lid.
Inside, the shoebox wasn’t empty. It was crammed. CRAMMED with tiny, folded pieces of paper, each one a handwritten note. She didn’t speak, just stood there, eyes still downcast. Professor Davies, bless her, prompted gently, “Would you like to tell us about it?”
A woman looking at her son | Source: Midjourney
Her voice was a whisper. “This is… my house. And these,” she gestured vaguely at the notes, “are all the things I can’t forget. The things I have to do. Every day.” She cleared her throat, a dry, raspy sound. “The sun… is for my brother. He loves yellow. He needs sunshine.”
A sudden, sharp pain hit my chest. It wasn’t just a shoebox. It was a prison, a responsibility, a burden. Those weren’t just notes; they were a child’s entire world, meticulously documented by an older sibling who had to keep it all together. God, I’d been so wrong. My meticulously crafted sculpture felt shallow, self-indulgent, next to her raw, aching truth.
From that day, I started to really watch her. Not with judgment, but with a horrifying, growing curiosity. I noticed the dark circles under her eyes weren’t just from staying up late studying, but a perpetual exhaustion. I saw her outside of class, on the bus, always with a younger boy, no older than five or six. She’d be helping him with his backpack, making sure he crossed the street safely, buying him a cheap ice cream cone, a rare treat. Her face would soften then, a brief, fleeting tenderness I’d never seen in the classroom. She’s raising him, isn’t she? The thought was a sickening jolt.
A close-up shot of an older woman’s face | Source: Midjourney
My own life, with my perfect home, my parents who always provided, who asked about my day, who encouraged my artistic pursuits, felt like a cruel joke. What was her story? Why was she shouldering such a weight? I ached to know, but didn’t dare approach her.
One afternoon, I saw her rushing out of campus, the little boy clinging to her hand. He stumbled, scraping his knee. She knelt instantly, pulling a worn band-aid from her pocket, speaking to him in soft, comforting tones. As she helped him up, he pointed across the street. “Look!” he cried, his voice surprisingly clear. “That’s her! She’s getting in the car!”
I followed his gaze. A woman, frail and gaunt, was being helped into a taxi by a hospital aide. Her face was a canvas of suffering, her hair thin and brittle. Her eyes, though, were a shocking shade of electric blue. So distinctive. The little boy waved, a small, hopeful gesture. The woman didn’t seem to see him, her gaze distant, lost.
Assorted cocktails | Source: Pexels
My heart twisted. Their mother. She’s sick. Terribly sick. The pieces clicked. This wasn’t laziness. This was survival. This was a young woman holding up her entire world with her bare hands. My earlier judgments felt like acid in my throat.
I couldn’t stop thinking about them. The electric blue eyes of the mother haunted me. They were so familiar. I spent the next few days in a fog of guilt and nascent empathy. I even considered volunteering at a local charity, anything to assuage the discomfort I felt.
Then, last week, I was helping my mother clean out the attic. Dust motes danced in the afternoon light. My mom handed me an old photo album, full of faded pictures from before I was born. “Look at your father’s old group of friends,” she chuckled, pointing to a snapshot of a beach party. “He was quite the charmer back then.”
A man standing outside his house | Source: Midjourney
I flipped through the pages, smiling at the dated fashion. Then, a loose photo slipped out from between the leaves. It was slightly larger, a formal portrait, not a casual snap. A couple stood smiling, arm-in-arm. The man was undeniably my father, younger, with that confident, boyish grin. But the woman beside him…
My breath caught.
She had long, flowing hair, not thin and brittle like the woman I saw, but full and vibrant. And her eyes… her eyes were that same shocking, electric blue.
I felt a cold dread creep up my spine. “Mom,” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “Who is this woman?”
My mother glanced over, her smile faltering for a split second before reforming. “Oh, her? That’s just an old friend from college. Before your father and I met. Why?”
I shook my head, my mind racing. An old friend. Electric blue eyes. My father, the charmer.
A man looking down | Source: Midjourney
A few days later, I saw her, the quiet girl from class, sitting on a bench outside the public library, her brother asleep on her lap. She looked utterly drained. I decided, then and there, that I had to do something. I had to apologize for my assumptions, offer help.
As I approached, she looked up, her eyes dull but alert. Before I could speak, her little brother stirred, mumbling sleepily. He pointed to a small, brightly colored wooden bird clutched in his hand. “He made it,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. “My daddy made it.”
My gaze snapped to the bird. It was a cardinal, carved with exquisite detail, painted a vibrant red. My own heart stopped.
I know that bird. I know it better than I know my own reflection.
My father, a passionate amateur woodcarver, only ever carved one type of bird: cardinals. He made one for my nursery. He made one for my tenth birthday. He made one for his office. It was his signature.
A man standing in a street | Source: Midjourney
The air left my lungs. The ground tilted.
“He… he made that for you?” I choked out, pointing a trembling finger at the small wooden cardinal.
She looked at me, a flicker of suspicion in her tired eyes. “Yeah,” she said softly, pulling her brother closer. “He used to visit. Before… before Mom got too sick. And he gave this to him. Said it was special. Our secret.”
OUR SECRET.
The electric blue eyes. My father’s “old friend.” The wooden cardinal. The little boy who looked so much like my father when he was a child, especially around the eyes. The mother who was so terribly, terribly sick, alone and adrift.
My legs gave out. I sank onto the bench beside her, the cold dread turning into a tidal wave of nausea.
The woman in the taxi. The woman with the electric blue eyes.
SHE WASN’T JUST AN OLD FRIEND.
A smiling woman sitting at a table | Source: Midjourney
She was his secret. My father’s secret.
And that little boy, the one she’s sacrificing everything for, the one who loves yellow, who needs sunshine, who clutches a cardinal carved by my father…
HE IS MY BROTHER.
My father’s other son.
The entire landscape of my inner world just shattered.
