At sixty-one, I had wealth beyond measure but felt an emptiness inside. One day, I spotted a disheveled woman rummaging through a trash can. Something about her resilience drew me in, and before I knew it, I offered her shelter in my garage-turned-guest-house. Lexi accepted, initially wary but eventually opening up about her past as an artist, devastated after her husband left her.
Over shared meals, I found comfort in her sharp wit, feeling less alone. But one afternoon, I walked into the garage unannounced and discovered disturbing paintings of me—grotesque depictions, chains, blood, even a coffin. Shocked, I confronted Lexi, who confessed she painted them out of anger.
“I didn’t mean for you to see those,” she stammered. “It was just my way of coping.”
Stung by her portrayal, I asked her to leave. The next day, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, handing her cash as she stepped out of the car.
Weeks later, a package arrived—a serene portrait of me, accompanied by a note from Lexi. I hesitated, then called her.
“Lexi, I got your painting. It’s beautiful,” I said.
“I’m glad. I wanted to apologize,” she replied.
“Let’s start over,” I suggested, my heart racing.
“I’d like that,” she said.
As we made plans for dinner, I felt a flicker of hope, realizing that our connection was worth exploring once more.
