9. Chapter 8
Jenna
The waiting room smelled faintly of lavender, a scent that should have been calming but only made Jenna feel more aware of the tightness in her chest. She sat in the corner, her tablet balanced on her lap, her stylus resting between her fingers.
Her latest illustration glowed softly on the screen-a whimsical landscape meant for the opening spread of a children's book.
She'd promised herself she wouldn't work here, but keeping her hands busy felt safer than letting her thoughts spiral.
"Mrs. Bradshaw?"
Her head snapped up as the receptionist called her name. The woman smiled politely, gesturing toward the open door. Jenna stood, tucking the tablet into her bag, and followed the familiar hallway to Dr. Patel's office.
Dr. Patel greeted her with the same warm smile Jenna had come to depend on.
The office was small but inviting, with its shelves of books and a single potted plant that seemed miraculously alive despite the lack of sunlight.
Jenna took her usual seat across from the desk, her hands twisting in her lap.
“How are you today, Jenna?” Dr. Patel asked, her voice calm and steady.
Jenna hesitated, her gaze flicking to the painting behind the desk-an abstract swirl of colours, vibrant and chaotic. Not her style, but she appreciated it all the same .
“Tired,” she admitted finally. “Lonely. I’ve been feeling really low lately… thinking about the baby I lost. I know I was only pregnant for a few weeks so many years ago, but I still can’t just move on.”
Dr. Patel set her pen aside, giving Jenna her full attention.
“That can be difficult, Jenna. Grief doesn’t always follow a timeline-especially when it remains an unaddressed issue between you and Troy.
If you’re not talking about it, if Troy is avoiding it, that pain can sit beneath the surface, gnawing away at you both.
It doesn’t simply vanish because time has passed. ”
Jenna inhaled shakily, then nodded. “You’re right,” she said. “I can’t keep bottling this up. I’ll try to talk to Troy about it, even if it’s uncomfortable. I owe it to myself-maybe even to him-to at least try. I would like to talk about something else.”
“Have you still been working on your art?” Dr.Patel asked
Jenna nodded, glancing down at her hands. “Yes. Mostly digital work. I finished an illustration for a magazine last week, and I just started on a children’s book project. It’s small, but… it feels good to be creating something.”
“That’s wonderful,” Dr. Patel said, picking her pen back up. “It sounds like you’re finding a way to focus on something that’s yours.”
Jenna let out a soft laugh. “It’s not just for me-it pays, too. Though I haven’t told anyone about that part.”
Dr. Patel raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
“I opened a separate account,” Jenna explained, her voice dropping slightly. “For the payments. It’s not much yet, but… it’s mine.”
“And how does that feel?” Dr. Patel asked gently .
Jenna looked down at her hands, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Good. A little scary, but good. Like… like I’m building something, even if no one else sees it.”
Later That Week
The soft glow of her tablet lit up Jenna's small studio space, the tapping of her stylus against the screen the only sound in the room. She was working on a piece for a lifestyle magazine-a series of illustrations for an article on Brighton's hidden gems.
She zoomed in on the details of a tiny coffee shop, adding warm light to the windows and tiny, colourful flowers to the planter outside. The client had been clear: Make it inviting. Make it look like a place you'd want to linger.
The familiar rhythm of her work pulled her in, the hours slipping by unnoticed. It wasn't until her tablet chimed with an incoming email that she glanced at the time. Midnight.
The message was from her client.
The draft looks fantastic! I've shared it with the editor, and they're thrilled. If you're interested, we'd love to discuss a follow-up project next month.
Jenna's lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. These moments were fleeting but powerful. They reminded her that there was a world beyond the confines of her house-a world where her work mattered, even if her family never noticed.
She closed her tablet and stretched, her joints protesting after hours hunched over. The house was silent, the only light coming from the faint glow of the streetlamp outside.
She thought about Troy, likely asleep in the guestroom again, and about Max and Lilly, who had barely acknowledged her at dinner. A pang of loneliness tightened in her chest, but she pushed it down, reminding herself of the email she'd just read.
She was more than their indifference.