𝑴𝒆𝒍𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑰𝒄𝒆 | 𝒈𝒙𝒈

𝑨𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝑴𝒊𝒐

It's been a month since we came back from the Hamptons, and I still couldn't decide if things had gotten better or worse. My father was still upset with me—much more than he should've been. All I did was call him out on his behavior.

My mother, though...she was almost unrecognizable. Yes, she was angry, and she made that clear, but there was something else too. A warmth in her gaze I forgot existed.

Not long after I got back, she sat me down. She told me they wouldn't touch my trust fund, and that I'd need to work during the summer—but I'd still get some time off before college. It felt like a truce, and I was grateful for it. 

She still tried to present herself as the perfect wife and mother, even though my father had practically moved into our Manhattan penthouse by now. But something had changed. She felt softer, more loving. The armor she always wore at home had started to slip, showing little glimpses of who she really was underneath. She was no longer maintaining the same rigid facade, and I wasn't sure what to make of it.

Last week I caught her painting on the balcony, her hair was tousled, strands slipping out of her messy bun. Her expensive clothes were stained by blue streaks of paint, some even got to her face. I stared at her for a few minutes, trying to convince myself that this really is my mother, that this woman who looks so carefree was the same one who never let a hair fall out of place. 

The painting was stunning. For the first time, I felt like I had a window into Gigi's soul. The girl in the painting was much younger, but the resemblance was undeniable—my mother, painted as she had once been. She was drowning in a lake that looked eerily familiar, like the one by her childhood home. I wanted to ask, but the question stuck in my throat.

Every brushstroke seemed deliberate, each layer of color adding to the weight of the scene, pulling you deeper into the girl's silent agony. There was something haunting in the way the water swallowed her, the way the shadows clung to her skin, making you feel the loneliness, the despair. It wasn't just a painting—it was a confession. And suddenly, I understood something about my mother that I had never grasped before.

"It's beautiful" the words slipped my mouth, and she turned around to face me. Her cheeks flushed, and I think it's the first time I've ever seen my mom blush. "You really think so?" She asked as a shy smile crept up her lips. 

I nodded, offering a smile of my own. I wanted to ask her so many questions, like why had she never pursued her true passion? Why had she buried this part of herself for so long? And why had she never shown me this side of her before?

I wanted to ask her everything, to pull apart the layers of the woman I thought I knew, but the words tangled in my throat. Now didn't seem like the right time. It felt fragile—this moment, this version of her. I was afraid that one wrong question might shatter it, send her back behind the walls she had built for as long as I could remember. 

So instead, I said nothing. Just watched her. For a second, we stood there, smiling at each other like strangers trying to find common ground. Her eyes softened, and I wondered if she could sense the questions behind my silence.

"I haven't painted in years," she finally admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "I'd forgotten how much I loved it." Her gaze flickered to the painting, as if she couldn't believe she'd created it herself. "It's...kind of scary, you know? Letting it out."

I swallowed hard. "Yeah," I whispered, "I know."

Since that day my mother shifted back to her "natural" state, wearing her signature pearls and elegant suits. She'd barely been home as she was planning a gala in the city, some charity event to raise money for whatever cause she deemed fit.