It wasn’t a stumble. It wasn’t an accident that could be brushed off with an “Oops” and a laugh and a napkin. She tilted the glass slowly, deliberately, watching with dead, polished interest as the wine rolled to the lip and spilled over, a thick crimson arc.
The first drop hit the bright blue sky Jacob had painted—a water-logged, heavy stain—and then the rest followed, a small, dark waterfall crashing down into his careful brushstrokes.
Jacob flinched like he’d been slapped.
I watched the dark red spread, veins of color bleeding through the blue, drowning the distant suggestion of trees on the far shore. The pigment separated as it ran, leaving ugly, bruised streaks. The paper buckled, curling up at the edges, its fragile structure surrendering.
Jacob’s hand hovered in the air, still holding his brush. A dot of blue trembled on the tip but never fell. His breath hitched.
Jessica let the last of the wine drip out, then turned the empty glass upside down and planted it right in the middle of the painting. The glass made a dull, wet thud.
“He needs to learn that the world doesn’t care about his little doodles,” she said, her words slurring but disturbingly steady. “It’s taking up space on the table.”
She wasn’t looking at my son when she said it. She was looking at me.
“And honestly,” she added, reaching for the bottle on the sideboard, “Jacob needs to toughen up.”
She refilled her glass. Behind her, Uncle Mark slapped his knee and wheezed out a laugh.
The others joined in. The laughter rolled through the cabin, sharp and ugly, bouncing off the wood paneling and framed photos like something physical, like hail. Continue reading…
