What started as a routine parent-teacher meeting turned into an emotional rollercoaster when I saw my six-year-old’s artwork. Page after page revealed the same house, drawn in uncanny detail. My blood ran cold when I realized my daughter might’ve uncovered my deepest secret.
I thought I’d never see that house again, but there it was, staring back at me from a stack of construction paper, rendered in crayon with the kind of detail that made my stomach drop to my shoes. “The detail is really amazing,” Mrs. Traynor said as she laid out more of Ava’s drawings.
Her voice had that sing-song quality teachers use when they’re trying to be encouraging. “Most kids will draw a pretty basic house,” Mrs. Traynor continued, “but your daughter seems to have an artist’s eye.
Or perhaps an architect’s eye.”
I nodded like one of those bobblehead dolls you see in car windows. What else could I do? Until moments ago, this had been a regular parent-teacher conference, one of those early-year check-ins where everyone smiles too much and talks about potential.
Then Mrs. Traynor had pulled out Ava’s drawings. A folder full of them, all showing the same house.
I recognized it at once. A white house with green shutters, a wraparound porch that seemed to stretch on forever, and a tall oak tree with a tire swing that had seen better days. Every line, every shadow, every detail was exactly as I remembered it from 25 years ago.
My mind raced with fractured memories that I’d spent years trying to forget: my fingers fumbling as I dialed 911, the howling sirens when the ambulance arrived… cold hallways, the weight of my suitcase, and later, my mother’s hard stare as she kneeled to meet my gaze and told me to never tell anyone about that house. How could Ava be drawing that house? There was only one photo of it, locked away with the rest of my childhood secrets in a suitcase I hadn’t opened in years.
Ava couldn’t have found that photo. Could she? “Is everything okay?” Mrs.
Traynor’s voice cut through my spiral of panic. I looked up at her, forced what I hoped was a convincing smile, and nodded again. “Yes, sorry.
Just amazed by her talent, that’s all.”
We concluded the conference with the usual pleasantries about Ava’s progress in math and reading, but I barely heard a word of it. My heart was beating so hard I was sure Mrs. Traynor could hear it echoing off the classroom walls.
I rushed home with Ava’s drawings clutched in my sweaty palm, my heart lodged firmly in my throat. When I got home, I absentmindedly greeted Mark, my husband, and hugged Ava, who was sprawled on the living room floor with her coloring books. But my mind was elsewhere, racing with questions I didn’t want to answer.
I mumbled something about needing to find something upstairs and hurried to the attic. The narrow wooden steps creaked as I climbed into the dusty space where we kept our Christmas decorations and old college textbooks. I moved some boxes aside until I found what I was looking for: a battered old suitcase with corners held together by duct tape.
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