Reclaiming My Time: Picture of a New Life by Olivia Salter | Short Story

 

Reclaiming My Time: Picture of a New Life

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 2,827

Rebecca’s days had long ago blurred into a colorless loop: mornings with coffee brewed and breakfast ready, his lunch packed, his socks matched and folded. The ritualistic preparation for Eric’s day was a production with no audience, no applause, only the fading hope that perhaps today he’d look at her with more than that dismissive glance. In those early years, she had romanticized his dismissiveness as mystery, mistaking his quiet moods for depth and his selfishness for ambition.

But now, standing at the counter chopping vegetables for his dinner, Rebecca wondered how she’d slipped so deeply into this role. Eric sat behind her, hunched over his laptop, immersed in some new video game as usual. She glanced over her shoulder. His face was slack, unthinking, his fingers tapping out moves with the precision of muscle memory.

Once, she’d tried to join him in these games, thinking they could share something, but he brushed her off. “It’s not really your thing,” he’d said, not even looking up. It’s not really my thing, she thought bitterly, pressing the knife harder against the cutting board. Her days were spent accommodating his "things," keeping their life running so he could play, work, and rest undisturbed. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d asked how she was doing. If he ever had.

Her phone buzzed on the counter, jolting her out of her thoughts. It was Sarah, her friend from college. They hadn’t spoken in months, but Sarah had always been the one to check in, to see if Rebecca was alright, even when Rebecca had nothing reassuring to say.

Want to catch up? It’s been too long.

She stared at the message, her thumb hovering. A tiny thrill prickled under her skin—an invitation to step out of her role, even just for an hour. But as quickly as it came, she brushed it away. Eric would notice if she left. He’d complain about the disruption, the inconvenience of her absence. And besides, what would she even tell Sarah?

Her response was a single word: Busy.

***

The next morning, Rebecca found herself staring at her reflection, studying the hollowness in her own eyes. She barely recognized herself—the shadows under her eyes, the faint, tired lines around her mouth. She hadn’t done anything purely for herself in years. Eric had made sure of that, subtly, by filling her life with endless responsibilities.

She remembered how charming he had been when they met, his confidence and sharp wit intoxicating. He’d known exactly what to say, how to make her feel seen, special. “You’re different from anyone I’ve met,” he’d said, and she’d believed him. But over the years, his attention had dwindled to nothing, leaving only criticism in its place. He wasn’t angry or violent; he simply…expected. Expected meals, clean clothes, a quiet house, and her undivided attention when he needed it, which was rare.

In an impulsive flash, she picked up her phone and called Sarah. Her voice trembled, unpracticed. “Actually, I’d love to catch up. Are you free today?”

***

They met in a cozy cafe, a stark contrast to the sterile silence of her own home. Sarah greeted her with a warm, relieved smile. They sat by the window, the sun warming their faces, and for the first time in years, Rebecca found herself talking—really talking. She told Sarah about Eric’s indifference, her loneliness, the numbness that had seeped into every part of her life.

Sarah listened, her eyes filled with empathy. “You don’t have to live like this, Rebecca,” she said softly. “You deserve more than this. You don’t have to just disappear.”

The words hit her like a shock. Disappear. She realized that’s exactly what she’d done. Bit by bit, she’d allowed herself to fade, believing that if she became small enough, quiet enough, he’d finally be happy with her. But he never was, and she was beginning to see that he never would be.

***

That night, Rebecca picked up a paintbrush for the first time in years. Art had once been her solace, her passion, but she’d set it aside when she met Eric, thinking she’d find something even better with him. The canvas stared back at her, blank and intimidating, but she pushed forward, letting her hand move in bold, reckless strokes. She painted until the early hours, colors swirling and blending in ways that didn’t make sense but felt right.

When Eric woke the next morning, he barely glanced at her work. “Is there coffee?” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. He didn’t notice the exhaustion in her face, the slight tremor in her hands from a night spent pouring her heart onto the canvas. To him, the painting was just another one of her “little hobbies,” an insignificant diversion.

But for Rebecca, it was something else entirely. It was a beginning.

***

Over the next few weeks, she painted every chance she got. Her apartment filled with canvases—abstract shapes, chaotic bursts of color, expressions of frustration, longing, anger. She reconnected with old friends, too, cautiously at first, but with growing confidence. She even invited Sarah over one evening to see her work.

“Rebecca,” Sarah breathed, looking around at the paintings. “These are incredible. You could have a show with these.”

The suggestion thrilled her and terrified her at once. She could barely imagine herself stepping into that world, showing her work, stepping into the light. But the thought wouldn’t leave her. A show—a real show—felt like a bridge to another life, one where she wasn’t invisible.

When she talked about the idea with Eric that night, he laughed. “A show? Don’t you think that’s a bit much? I mean, art’s fine as a hobby, but who’s really going to care about this…stuff?”

She felt her stomach drop, but she held her ground. “It matters to me.”

He looked at her, puzzled. “Well, as long as it doesn’t interfere with things around here.”

It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. She wouldn’t let his dismissiveness poison her excitement. For the first time in years, she didn’t need his approval.

***

When the opportunity for a small exhibition came, she threw herself into preparing for it, spending hours refining her work. Her friends, those she’d distanced herself from during her marriage, rallied around her, filling her apartment with laughter, encouragement, and color. She realized that she’d become a stranger even to herself, but now, she was finding her way back.

Eric’s apathy persisted, though, and one night it reached a breaking point. She’d forgotten to pick up his dry cleaning—a minor oversight in the whirlwind of preparations for the exhibit—but he reacted as if she’d committed an unforgivable betrayal.

“You can’t even handle the simplest things anymore,” he snapped, his voice thick with disgust. “This is exactly why people can’t rely on you. You get distracted, obsessed with this…nonsense, and everything falls apart.”

Rebecca stood in stunned silence, her heart pounding as his words echoed in her mind. She’d heard them before, of course, in subtle digs and passing comments, but never so venomously. A strange calm settled over her as she watched him, her mind sharpening with a clarity she hadn’t felt in years.

“I think you should go,” she said quietly.

He scoffed. “Go where?”

“Out of my life,” she replied, her voice steady. “I’m done.”

***

The divorce was a brief, emotionless affair. Eric barely looked at her as they signed the papers, his face a mask of indifference. But Rebecca felt a weight lift with every page, every signature, as if she were shedding the last remnants of a life that had once consumed her.

In her new apartment, a small, sunlit space filled with canvases and art supplies, Rebecca began to rebuild. She found work at a local bookstore and spent her evenings painting, each canvas a step closer to reclaiming herself.

One evening, she was introduced to a man named Leo at a gallery opening. He was kind, soft-spoken, and seemed genuinely interested in her work. Over coffee, they talked about art, literature, and the quiet beauty of ordinary things. He asked about her story, and she told him, not as a victim but as a survivor, someone who had found her way back to herself.

As their friendship grew, Rebecca felt something she hadn’t felt in years—a tentative, cautious hope. But she was different now. She guarded her independence fiercely, setting boundaries, ensuring her life remained her own. Leo respected that, never pushing, always offering, understanding that her trust was a gift, not an expectation.

***

One night, as she looked at a painting of an open landscape she’d recently completed, Rebecca felt a sense of peace settle over her. The colors were vibrant, expansive, full of life and possibility. She realized she was no longer painting from a place of anger or loss but of freedom, of joy in the unknown.

She stood back, admiring the canvas, feeling her heart swell. Her life was her own again, full of color and light. And as she looked around her small apartment, filled with art and laughter and friends, she knew that she had finally come home—to herself.

***

Rebecca sat in front of her easel, a cup of tea cooling in her hands as she stared at the canvas. It had been weeks since she’d left Eric, and yet there were days when she felt like she was still running from him. The echoes of his voice, his criticisms, and his selfishness had clung to her like a persistent fog, lingering in the corners of her mind. But every stroke of paint, every hour spent surrounded by color, reminded her that she was moving forward.

She had learned that freedom was more than just an absence of someone else—it was the presence of her own desires, her own voice. And now, with each new day, she was learning to embrace that voice fully.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. She glanced up, wiping her hands on her apron before crossing the room to answer. When she opened the door, Sarah stood on the other side, smiling brightly.

“I brought lunch,” Sarah said, holding up a small brown bag. “And I need to talk to you about something.”

Rebecca stepped aside to let her in. “What’s going on?”

Sarah set the bag down on the table and turned to face her. Her eyes were filled with excitement, and Rebecca could feel the weight of her words before they were even spoken.

“So, I’ve been talking to some of my contacts,” Sarah began, her voice full of energy. “I know this isn’t what you’ve been focused on, but there’s this gallery in the city that wants to showcase your work. They’ve seen some of the pieces you’ve been posting, and they’re really interested.”

Rebecca blinked, momentarily stunned. It wasn’t that she hadn’t dreamed of this moment—she had. But somewhere along the way, she had buried that dream beneath the weight of Eric’s indifference and her own self-doubt. Now, standing on the brink of a real opportunity, she felt her heart flutter with both fear and excitement.

“Wait,” Rebecca said, trying to process the information. “A gallery wants to showcase my work?”

Sarah nodded, her smile widening. “Yes! They want to do a full exhibition of your pieces. You’ve got talent, Rebecca. It’s time to share it with the world.”

Rebecca stood motionless for a moment, the gravity of the offer sinking in. Her first instinct was to decline, to find some reason to back away from it. She was used to pushing away any recognition, any spotlight. For so long, her identity had been tangled up in someone else’s life, their demands, their needs. Now, it felt foreign to imagine her art being seen by more than just a handful of people.

But as she looked at Sarah, standing there with such certainty and excitement, Rebecca realized that this was no longer about hiding in the shadows. This was about stepping into the light, about taking back everything she had lost in the years of playing the supporting role.

“I don’t know,” Rebecca said, her voice quieter now. “What if I’m not ready? What if they hate it?”

Sarah shook her head. “You are more than ready. You’ve been preparing for this without even realizing it. Just let yourself take the chance.”

Rebecca inhaled deeply, the weight of her past colliding with the promise of something new. She thought of the years spent cleaning up after Eric, of the hours spent in silence, trying to please him, trying to shrink herself into a version of herself that he could accept. She thought of all the times she had put off her own dreams for his comfort, for his approval. She had spent so much time waiting for his validation, but now, she was the one who needed to validate herself.

With a deep breath, she nodded. “Okay,” she said, her voice steady. “Let’s do it.”

***

The weeks leading up to the exhibition were a blur of preparations. Rebecca found herself working late into the night, touching up paintings, choosing the ones that felt the most personal, the most authentic to who she was now. Each brushstroke felt like an act of defiance, a statement of her strength and independence. No longer did she need to hide behind anyone else’s expectations. Her art was hers, and that was enough.

She took long walks through the city, visiting galleries and soaking in the works of other artists. It was both inspiring and humbling to see how much art could communicate, how much it could speak to the heart and soul. Rebecca knew she had a voice now, and it was time to let the world hear it.

On the night of the exhibition, Rebecca stood in the gallery, her heart pounding as she surveyed the room. The walls were lined with her paintings, the colors vibrant and bold against the neutral tones of the space. She could hardly believe it. This was her work, her heart on display for the world to see.

Sarah, of course, was there, beaming with pride, her enthusiasm infectious. “This is it, Rebecca,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “You’re here. You’re finally doing it.”

Rebecca smiled, but a part of her felt like she was standing on the edge of something much bigger than herself. This wasn’t just about her art; it was about reclaiming everything she had lost. It was about saying to herself—and to the world—that she was more than what Eric had tried to make her. She was more than a wife, more than a mother to a man-child. She was an artist. She was a person. She was whole.

As the evening wore on, more people filtered into the gallery, admiring the paintings, chatting with Sarah, complimenting Rebecca’s work. For the first time in years, she felt seen—not as someone’s partner or caretaker, but as an individual with something valuable to offer.

The door opened with a soft chime, and Rebecca looked up, startled to see Leo standing in the doorway. He was smiling, his eyes warm, and he waved at her across the room. She hadn’t expected him to come; she had told herself she wasn’t doing this for him, that she was doing it for herself. But when he walked toward her, his presence was like a quiet reassurance that she wasn’t alone in this journey.

“You’re incredible,” Leo said softly, his gaze taking in the paintings with genuine admiration. “I knew you had talent, but this… this is something else.”

Rebecca smiled, feeling a warmth spread through her. “Thank you. It’s…it’s been a long time coming.”

Leo tilted his head. “I know. But you’re here now. And that’s what matters.”

They stood together, both of them taking in the room, the paintings, the crowd. For a moment, it felt like the world was a little bit kinder, a little bit brighter, because she had dared to take a step into it, on her own terms.

As the evening drew to a close, and the last of the guests filtered out, Sarah came over with a bottle of champagne, her grin wide. “You did it, Rebecca. You really did it.”

Rebecca took the glass, her fingers steady. “We did it,” she corrected. “We all did.”

Leo raised his glass in agreement, and Rebecca, for the first time in years, felt the weight of her past lift. She had finally found her way back to herself, not through someone else’s approval, but through her own strength, her own desire to live fully, authentically.

She was no longer a shadow. She was the artist, the woman who had stepped out of the darkness and into the light. And this was just the beginning.