SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO
Some days I wonder whether I’ve made a mistake.
It’s not the children—I’ve grown to love them already, but I worry whether I’m able to give them what they need.
Damien puts on a brave face for his sister’s sake, but beneath that is anger and confusion. Yesterday, he asked me why I think I know how to “fix” things when their father is so broken.
It hurt to hear that, because maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s my fault that Daniel turned out the way that he did, though where exactly I went wrong, I couldn’t say.
I told Damien the truth: that I don’t know how to fix any of this, but that maybe we can build something new together.
At least he hasn’t struggled to make friends. The groundskeeper has a boy around the same age who helps around the orchard sometimes; hopefully, he’ll keep Damien out of trouble.
Lenore is another story. She feels so very deeply, but she doesn’t know me well enough to truly open up.
I worry that if she holds all those emotions in, they’ll tear her apart one day.
It’s obvious that she looks to her brother for some sense of stability and normalcy, but that responsibility does not belong on a twelve-year-old’s shoulders.
Neither of them brought much from home, but Lenore brought a sketchbook and has shown some interest in drawing.
Yesterday, I went and dug some of Arthur’s old supplies out of the attic to encourage her.
Some of the oils had oxidized, and the brushes are in rough shape, but the watercolors should be useable, at least.
There is something therapeutic about creating, I think. A way to get all your emotions out without having to put words to them, because finding the right words is easier said than done.