That day she drew a pigeon in a cage. The bars were thick and wide. And the pigeon’s feathers beautiful. Stifled potential. Sounded familiar.

Sometimes, Adi drew a large oak tree. She drew thick strong strokes, left the tree without leaves. So it was connected, yet searching.

Other times, a potted plant would appear on her canvas, a floral wall- papered background. So touché. Reminiscent of Bubby’s oatmeal cookies, steady, constant love.

And then came the figures. Bearded and stout, like the president of her shul and the rav down the block. Gangly and trending, smooth, crisp pleats, and silken hair — charming, but reminded her of a hollow vase. And the children — button noses, rosebud lips, dancing eyes. The story of youth and promise and innocence. Where anything is still possible. Nope. That was too far gone, Adi knew.

There it was, for all to see in plain view. If only anyone cared to know the inner workings of her soul.

Adi smoothed her hair, flashed a cheesy smile in the mirror. “Ugh, they’ll see right through me.” She adjusted her wristband and frowned. Why did things have to be so complicated?

“Taxi’s here.”

Adi sighed. “Coming, Ma.”

She slid into the seat next to her mother, and pursed her lips tight. This time there would be a good ending. Like all the stories in the books.