Page 9 of Coerced

“It’s your painting, Aria,” Mom chimed in.

While she’d added another piece to the puzzle, I was no less confused. In fact, I found myself even more curious as to what was going on. Frustrated, I asked, “Cansomeone please explain what you all seem to be so happy about?”

“There’s a guy who wants to buy your paintings,” Jazzy shared.

“What? Who?”

“By dumb luck, an art dealer wound up in the store today, Aria,” my dad shared. “He had some car trouble, and he stopped in to see if anyone could help. His battery was dead, so I gave him a jump. Anyway, after I’d done my good deed, I guess he wanted to patronize the store to show his appreciation. He came inside and saw the painting you did for me. He wanted to purchase it. I told him that was the one thing in the store that wasn’t for sale.”

I blinked my eyes in surprise. “Are you serious? An art dealer wanted to buy my painting?”

My father was so excited he was pacing back and forth. “I’ve always known your art was extraordinary, Aria, and this just proves it.”

I wanted to feel the same excitement as it seemed the rest of my family did, but I wasn’t ready to celebrate just yet. I needed more information.

“Okay, well, I assume you didn’t sell the painting to him, did you?” I asked.

Dad shook his head. “No. No, but I had pictures of some of the others you’ve done, and when I showed them to him, he insisted he needed to purchase them. Aria, he offered me twenty-five thousand dollars for the collection of paintings you did for each of us.”

My hand shot out to grip the back of the chair beside me. “Twenty-five-thousand dollars? For four paintings?”

“Yes. He wants the originals, though. We can’t just have you paint the same ones all over again.”

“That’s… that’s?—”

“Amazing, isn’t it?” my sister interjected.

My head snapped in her direction, eyes ready to fall out of my head. “We can’t sell them. They’re… they’re important. They were made for my family.”

“Your family is close to starving, big sister,” Jazzy pointed out. “Dad was going to call the realtor today. This might be just what we need to get through this and stay here.”

My mom and dad were looking at me with such hopeful stares, neither one of them refuting what my sister had just said.

Those paintings were special. They meant everything to me. And I thought they meant everything to my family.

And they were ready to give them up so easily. Sure, I knew we needed the money, but there had to be another way.

“Can’t we… can’t I make another set of paintings? I’ll do something different than those, but it’ll be no less wonderful. I know I can do it.”

Dad shook his head. “There’s no option for that yet. If these paintings do well, he’ll commission more. Then you can make all the paintings you want. And you can make us new ones to have here in the house in place of those originals.”

It seemed everyone had made up their minds.

What was I supposed to do?

As much as I wanted to say no, to demand that I be given the opportunity to create something better, my dad had madeit clear that wasn’t an option. Twenty-five thousand dollars was a lot of money for us right now, and I hadn’t seen so much hope in the faces of the people I loved ever before now.

If I turned this down, if I declined the offer, it would be me who led our family to losing our home. Then there would be someone to blame.

I wished there was another way.

Offering a half-hearted smile, I murmured, “I’ll go get my painting from my room.”

Relief swept through each of their faces. “Thank you, Aria,” my mom rasped. “This means the world to us.”

And because they meant everything to me, I would, once again, bottle up my feelings and swallow the hurt. I’d do what they needed, what we all needed, despite the way it made me feel.

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “I know, Mom. I can always make us new ones, can’t I?”