Page 110 of Beneath the Light of the Moon

“Kids grow up fast, Eleanor. He’ll be a spiteful teen who wants nothing to do with us soon enough. And by that time, it’ll be too late.”

“You’re so dramatic. He’ll come around when he’s ready.”

“He’s readynow.”

His mom ignored him. “We’ll talk about this more later; you’re going to make us late to our class.”

At the sound of a faint kiss, Mikko knew he needed to put some distance between himself and his parent’s private conversation.

Quickly, his feet were soundless as he ran back the way he’d come from. The corridor of their house was opulent and cold. Art his mom had curated and collected from art directors and galleries across the world hung on the walls, their colors bleeding together as he dashed past. Skidding around a corner, out of sight, he bent over to catch his breath.

“Mikko!” she called out not knowing he was closer than she thought, “You ready to head out to our painting class?”

Straightening his clothes, he schooled his features into something unsuspecting and rounded the corner. “Hi mom, I’m ready.”

Her hair was dark and pulled back into a messy bun. Her clothes were casual, something she could get paint on and not care about. While she looked carefree—an artist’s spirit embodied—he didn’t miss the dark circles forming under her eyes and the shine dulling from her hair. Mikko was beginning to wonder if his father’s money was taking a mental toll on her too. She’d never approved of the way he’d earned it or spent his time, but he bought her whatever she wanted, especially art.

Maybe it would be enough to keep them quiet—happy.

Despite the tired look in her eyes, her features brightened when she saw him. “Perfect, we have blank canvases awaiting us. I can only imagine what my little daydreamer will create today.”

Her words erased the intuition that’d been niggling in his gut moments before.

AN HOUR LATER they sat at easels. His mom’s fine brush strokes were enviable.

“How do you make it look so easy?” he asked, tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth in concentration.

She smiled, pausing briefly to glance over at him. “Years of practice.”

“But I’m nine, that’s plenty old enough to be good at this.”

His mom’s lilting laughter warmed his heart, canceling out the frustrations lingering there. “Hardly, you’ve got so much time left ahead of you, Mikko. Don’t rush perfection.” She wiped the color smeared on her fingers onto her apron.

“But I want to be like you.” A protest from his lips.

“And you will, give it time.” It was a promise from hers.

The conversation he’d overheard earlier lingered in his mind. What if he didn’t learn fast enough? What if he couldn’t prove to his father that he was meant for more than real estate and scams? What if he was roped into the family business instead?

Even as a young kid, Mikko knew that was thelastthing he wanted.

“Besides, you have an eye for this. It’s only a matter of time before itclicks.” Turning back to her canvas, his mom continued. It was a sunset, the orange color blazing across the horizon defiantly. Everyone in the room was painting some version of it, the instructor at the front of the class helping lead some parts of the painting, but to him, his mom’s was the best.

She always soared above the rest.

Unable to help himself, the words burst free. “What if dad is right?”

Her spine stiffened slightly. “What do you mean, dear?”

“That I should be focusing on learning all that I can from him about the business.”

A moment of silence as she feathered in a rich pink color onto her piece. “Someone’s been eavesdropping I see.” She glanced over at him knowingly.

“I know…I shouldn’t have, but dad’s always arguing.”

“He’s going through a rough patch right now. Stress impacts everyone differently, and for your father…well, he has a tendency to expect everyone to play pretend like him.”

Reaching over, her paint flecked hand squeezed Mikko’s shoulder. “Besides, you know how he is, he’s never been able to understand the world like us, dear. We see it from a different lens—as a place to be explored and revered. But your father,” she sighed, and Mikko couldn’t tell if it was in exhaustion or remembrance, “he sees the world in black and white, logic overruling everything else. He forgets the small things that make up life—make it beautiful.