She pauses a moment, and tries to remember what she used to paint as a child. Suddenly a memory washes over her. She is on the porch with her mother, both of them with easels in front of them. Every few minutes, Melinda looks over at her mom and giggles, then returns to her painting. She is painting a portrait of her mother. When her mother notices it, she stands behind her and puts a hand on her shoulder, nodding, a smile spreading across her lips. “You are very talented, Melinda. That portrait is beautiful. Well done!” The pride she had felt at her mother’s words had been so powerful. She had been buoyed by them for days.       Melinda smiles at the memory, trying to erase a small ache she feels in her chest. She remembers now what a blank canvas and a box of paints had meant to her. She had wanted to be an artist when she was a girl, but after her mother went away (“She was murdered,” a voice says in her head), her dream faded and she had never picked up a paintbrush again.       “I used to paint portraits,” she tells Cynthia finally, answering her question. “I would paint portraits of my mother and of Father, and of my grandmother. Sometimes of myself. Or of photographs that Gramma used to keep in the family album. I haven’t painted in so long now.”      “Will you paint with me one day, Melinda?” Cynthia asks, her eyes hopeful.      She is surprised to feel a pang of longing hit her at the thought of spreading colour over a blank canvas. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to discover her creative roots again. Maybe it could serve as a much-needed distraction.      Melinda nods as a grin forms on her face. “You can count on it, hon.”      She peers into one of the windows trying to catch a glimpse of someone inside.      “Is Daddy home, Cynthia?”      The little girl shakes her head. “He’s at his office. He said he would be back later.”      Melinda nods, disappointed. “I wasn’t sure if he would be in. I think I will wait for him. And in the meantime, how about we paint a few pictures?”      Cynthia’s eyes light up. “I would love that, Melinda! I’ll go get you an easel.”