Chapter 15
Ottilie was six when she asked to see Emily’s portrait again.
Her choice.
The same ballroom.
Same side table.
Different atmosphere.
She stood before it wearing jeans and a sweater.
No oversized dress.
No pendant.
She stared.
“She looks like me.”
A little.
“Yes.”
“Is that why Aunt Dora?”
“Partly.”
Ottilie frowned.
“Did Emily like dress?”
“I don’t know.”
Isadora answered from behind us.
“She hated it.”
Ottilie turned.
Isadora smiled sadly.
“She said it scratched.”
I almost laughed.
Three years of using the dress as sacred symbol.
Emily hated it.
Of course.
Ottilie laughed.
“So why keep?”
“Because adults are strange.”
Excellent answer.
Then Ottilie asked:
“Did Emily know me?”
“No.”
“Would she like me?”
Isadora’s face changed.
“I think so.”
Then corrected herself.
“I don’t know.”
Better.
No projecting dead children either.
Ottilie nodded.
She studied the portrait another moment.
Then:
“Can put somewhere else?”
Isadora looked at me.
“Why?”
“Everyone staring.”
The portrait had become altar.
She noticed.
So we moved it.
Not removed.
Placed in Isadora’s private sitting room.
Family dinners no longer occurred beneath Emily’s gaze.
Grief became personal instead of architectural.
That mattered.
The ballroom felt larger afterward.
May you like
Not because the portrait was large.
Because one dead child no longer occupied the emotional center of every gathering.
