Curator of My Own Life

The plane ride felt endless, but a rush of excitement washed over me, eager to see my Uncle Julian, the man who' d raised me since my parents died.

I pictured his welcoming smile, the scent of turpentine, the way he' d call me his "little artist."

But the grand foyer greeted me with an unsettling silence instead of his usual classical music.

Then I saw them: Julian, his hands covering a woman' s visibly pregnant stomach, his head bent, whispering, before a slow, tender kiss that shattered my world.