coping with painting
Painting became my refuge from anxiety. Every brushstroke offered a little distraction, but inevitably brought me back to the family I felt slipping away. My canvases, almost unconsciously, became populated with faces resembling those of my grandchildren. It was a bittersweet mixture: art allowed me to escape, but each finished work painfully underlined the growing emptiness in my life.
Coping with Painting
initial report
Mr. Davis’ first report arrived, but it didn’t give me the answers I’d hoped for. He simply detailed having seen the children with their mother in various places – the school, the park, the grocery store – but nothing seemed to indicate anything unusual. “They seem to be taking good care of themselves,” he had written, trying to reassure me. But his observations had only intensified my frustration. I needed more than just appearances; I needed to understand why my grandchildren were keeping me at arm’s length.
Initial Report
