Four Minute Phone Call Exposed My Husband and My Best Friend
At eleven o’clock, the smell of fresh, wet latex paint filled the room. I dipped the roller into the plastic tray, watching the thick, dark grey paint cling to the nap. I pressed the roller against the pastel pink wall, making a long, vertical stroke that completely covered the painted birds.
The pastel pink disappeared under the sharp, clean slate grey. With every stroke, the space looked less like a nursery and more like a room of my own. I watched the dark paint dry to a soft, matte finish under the window.
“The drafting table will fit along this wall,” I said, pointing the roller toward the space between the two windows.
“The light is best there for your drawings,” my mother said, her brush moving steadily along the baseboard. “Your father always said a landscape architect needs northern light.”
“It will be my office,” I said. “The business name is registered now. Just my name on the license.”
“That is as it should be,” my mother said.
