Chapter 6 - The Uninvited Guest
Two years passed.
I had turned seventy-two. My Parkinson's remained strikingly stable, managed by daily exercise, proper medication, and an environment devoid of toxicity. My paintings were now being exhibited in a small gallery in Cascais, near Lisbon, and I had built a rich network of friends—expatriates, local artists, and gentle neighbors who treated me with deep affection.
I had built a life that was entirely my own.
One bright Tuesday morning in September, I was sitting on the front porch of my Lagos villa, sipping chamomile tea and sketching the coastal light, when a taxicab pulled up to the gate.
The door opened, and a tall, slender man stepped out. He carried a single travel bag over his shoulder. He looked older, his hair silvered at the temples, his face etched with lines of genuine strain and maturity.
It was David.
My heart gave a sudden, hard thud against my ribs. My left hand began to tremble—a sudden, involuntary reaction to the ghost from my past. I set my teacup down carefully on the wooden table.
David stood at the gate, making no move to unlatch it. He looked across the small courtyard at me, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe, hesitation, and profound nervous fear. He looked nothing like the smug, booming executive who had laughed at a cruel card on Christmas night.
"Mom," he said. His voice was cracked, barely carrying across the garden.
I stood up slowly. I did not rush to him, nor did I retreat into the house. I simply stood straight, holding myself with the dignity I had reclaimed.
"David," I said clearly. "How did you find me?"
"Emma," he confessed, taking a timid step toward the gate, though still waiting for my permission to open it. "She had a postcard you sent her six months ago. It had a local Lagos postmark and a gallery name. I spent three days driving along the coast asking gallery owners if they knew an American painter named Myrtle."
I looked at him for a long, silent moment. The silence hung heavy, filled with the ghosts of seventy-two years of motherhood and two years of absolute exile.
"You should come in," I said softly. "The sun is hot."
David unlatched the gate with trembling hands and walked into the courtyard. He looked around at the lush green garden, the whitewashed walls, the paintings resting against the patio easel, and finally, at me.
He stopped three feet away. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling over his weathered cheeks without restraint.
"You look... beautiful, Mom," he whispered. "You look so healthy."
May you like
"I am healthy, David," I said softly. "I am very well."
Without another word, my son dropped his bag onto the stone floor, fell to his knees before me, buried his face against my knees, and wept like a child.
