I asked my mom this morning about the almost burnt painting I saw last week in our attic. Its main subject is a woman dressed in glamor and elegance. She looked like me and my mommy but I am quite sure she is not my granny.
To my surprise, mom turned pale and then sad and then angry. “I thought I was able to throw it. Don’t touch it again,” she said.
I stared and waited for more. Sighing, she continued.
“She’s your granny’s mom. The man and the girl were your granny’s dad and sister. She burned their house and killed all including herself because of jealousy. Your granny and that painting are the only survivors of that fire.”
Word count: 120
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Photo credit: The Storyteller’s Abode