The house is small, though Kinsley has done her best to make it a home. Isla’s things are littered all over the place, her drawings framed on nearly every wall.
“She’s an artist,” I observe.
Kinsley’s entire face and posture softens. “Yeah, she is. She started drawing when she was a year old and she’s never stopped.”
I stop in front of a framed watercolor painting of a dragon with outstretched wings. “She’s good.”
“I know. Lately, all her drawings have been really, like, fantastical. I think it’s her escape.”
“Does she need an escape?”
Kinsley shrugs. “Don’t we all?”
It’s a far cry from my home. There’s much more color here. Color in the curtains, the carpets, the sofa, the walls. I spy a dreamcatcher hanging from one corner and a toy mobile hanging from the other.
Nothing matches.
