“She is too fragile to make decisions right now,” he had told the head physician.

“I will handle the medical release forms,” he had added, slipping his gold pen from his pocket.

He had used my grief to sign away my rights to the joint trust.

He had used my empty womb to paint me as unstable to his board of directors.

I shook the memory from my head and gripped the charcoal tighter.

“I am not fragile,” I whispered to the empty room.

I turned back to the blank canvas.

The rain began to beat harder against the glass windows of the studio.

I worked through the night.

My hands grew black with charcoal dust and turpentine.

I sketched the outline of a third painting, a depiction of a nursery filled with empty filing cabinets.

It was a physical manifestation of how Daniel had traded our personal tragedy for corporate leverage.

By dawn, the muscles in my back were aching.

The rain had stopped, leaving the Chicago skyline gray and cold.

I took a thermos of lukewarm coffee from my bag and drank.