“Mia,” I said, looking over at her.
She looked up from her pad, rubbing the hem of her shirt.
“Grandma says we should wear our painting clothes on Saturday,” I said, showing her the screen. “We can wear our overalls and have fun getting dirty.”
Mia’s face lit up with a rare, genuine smile.
“We can paint together before we go?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” I said, believing with all my heart that this was the fresh start we had been waiting for.
I looked down at the glowing screen of my phone, believing the written invitation is a sign of a fresh start.
The smell of blue acrylic paint filled the kitchen, sharp and slightly chemical, cutting through the scent of the wet coffee grounds in the sink. I held the edge of the kitchen table to keep the newspaper from sliding while Mia worked.
The blue paint went on in thick, uneven swipes across the bib of her denim overalls. She dipped her brush into the small plastic jar, her fingers smudged with a streak of bright cerulean.
