Moy has been coming over at night and going up to the new apartment with us to clean and fix things. More and more, the new apartment is starting to look like it is truly ours. Papa and Moy have painted the walls a soft eggshell white. The bathroom and kitchen are spotless.

SATURDAY, MARCH 3

Today is our moving day. Moy had a bed delivered, a bed he had bought himself. Franck also came over to help us take our things upstairs.

When Papa, Manman, and I went up, we found all the walls covered with Moy’s new paintings, most of which he had painted while he was gone.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the paintings. They were so beautiful and so true that they left me breathless.

There it was, our voyage from Beau Jour to Brooklyn, starting with packing our things the night before leaving Beau Jour, our visit to the consulate, our plane ride and our reunion at the airport with Papa, our first walk in the snow, our first Brooklyn bus ride, the Christmas Mass, the stores and houses in our Brooklyn neighborhood.

Manman walked through the apartment, staring at each canvas, as if reliving our journey, this time through Moy’s eyes. Papa looked at the paintings in amazement as though he couldn’t believe his own son had created them.

“When did you have time to put them up on the walls?” Papa asked Moy.

“I did it last night after the three of you went to bed,” Moy said.

Franck had come over late in the night and helped Moy put up the paintings. Franck looked very proud of himself for having kept such an important secret.

“Moy’s going to paint some murals in my restaurants,” Franck announced. “I think that would be good, don’t you, Victor?” he asked Papa.

“Very good,” Papa said.

Moy asked me to be “godmother” to his series of paintings and name them.

All I could think of was the proverb “Behind the mountains are more mountains.”

It seemed to fit. We had faced mountains of obstacles, but with help from family and friends seemed to have conquered them, at least for now.

Moy liked my suggestion of the proverb. He said that his depiction of our journey would be called “Behind the Mountains.”

One day Moy’s paintings will be in museums. I just know it. People will look at these paintings and say, “This is the story of the Espérance family. This is the ‘stream of their dreams.’ ”

Then Moy and I will write a book together. Moy will tell our story in images. And I will tell even more of our story with words.

My Personal Journey