My stomach twisted.
“When I first received recognition,” he continued, “I used her last name for a while. Later, when I opened this gallery, I went back to my own name.”
He looked at the floor.
“Not to honor him… but to close that chapter.”
My voice trembled.
“Adrian, I…”
He raised his hand slightly.
“I didn’t invite you here to hear apologies.”
“Then why am I here?”
His expression softened just a little.
“Because there’s something else you need to see.”
From a corner of the room he picked up a final painting, covered with a dark cloth.
Slowly, he pulled the fabric away.
It was a portrait.
Of me.
Exactly as I had been that night years ago—cold eyes, a hardened face, a door closing behind me.
But there was another detail.
Barely visible beside the child was a painted hand.
My hand.
Reaching forward… but not quite touching him.
“I never finished this painting,” Adrian explained quietly. “For years I kept working on it, trying to understand something.”
“What?” I whispered.
“Whether that man hated the child… or if he was just broken.”
I couldn’t speak.
Tears slid down my face before I even realized it.
“I didn’t know you could paint,” I murmured.
He gave a small, sad smile.
“You didn’t know how to love either,” he said gently. “Looks like we both learned a little late.”
We stood in silence for a long time, the weight of ten years hanging between us.
Finally, I forced myself to ask the question burning in my chest.
“How can I fix what I did?”
Adrian sighed.
“You can’t fix it. But you can listen.”
He walked to the desk and pulled out a sealed folder.
Inside was an old envelope, yellowed with age.
“My mother gave me this before she passed away,” he explained. “I didn’t open it until recently.”
My hands trembled as he unfolded the paper inside.
It was a medical document.
A paternity test.
My name.
His name.
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