She wandered through their home, looking, always searching. She knew it was there, at least it was there, wasn’t it? The painting was as clear in her mind as the day the artist completed it. Her husband, herself and their infant son.
It was the same every day, as she helplessly searched for some remainder of her son. A crib, a blanket, toy, even a milk bottle hidden in the back of a kitchen cupboard. There must be something she thought. And then she remembered the painting, definite proof he existed.
She had become isolated from her family and friends. It was her husband’s idea and he enforced it, providing no contact with the outside world. Did he intentionally keep her away or was he trying to dissuade the sudden grief they both suffered at their son’s loss? Did he see she was deteriorating quickly and was that his plan?
Meanwhile, she kept searching for a sign her son existed at all.