“Mama has always been content.”

Frustration had me yanking my hat off with force, pulling some hair tangled in the ribbon. “I love our mother, but I don’t wish to become her.” I set my snow-wet hat and shawl on the chair near the warm stove. “Is there no other way?”

Dries hung his own hat and coat, then rubbed his hands together over the heat. “You are a widow with a babe, in a foreign country, without any means of supporting yourself.”

“I have over a hundred paintings left to me by my husband.” Most by Vincent, some by others, alas none worth much. The artists Theo had most admired were the ones the art world least recognized.

The walls were crowded with still lifes, landscapes, and portraits, and we had more, in every cupboard, and piled under the bed. In more than one corner, they towered to the ceiling. They had become the structure of our lives, defining the edges.

“What else do you have?” Dries asked.

“Some four hundred drawings? Also from Vincent.”

My brother shook his head. “Worth nothing.” He looked around. “You can’t seriously wish to live in this mess.”

“I will set everything up the way Theo had intended. And I can live frugally.”

Dries didn’t respond, but his eyes said I dreamed of the impossible.

“I will move back up to the fourth floor.” I spoke as the solution occurred to me, but Dries had already turned away. Still, I could not quit. I offered my deepest, darkest pain. “I don’t need the larger space without Theo. There will be no more children.”

Cold spread over my chest, and I brushed at the front of my dress, thinking snow was melting into the black fabric, but there was nothing there.

I busied myself so I wouldn’t scream at the unfairness of life. I poured a bit of donkey milk in a pan, then placed it on the stovetop to warm, adding a pinch of sugar. “I am still convinced that Wil’s illness last summer came from contaminated cow milk.” How Dries’s wife, Annie, had mocked me for that opinion. “As soon as we arranged to have a woman bring her donkey to the back door every day, getting the milk fresh, he quickly recovered.”

My son was the picture of health these days, but I still bought donkey milk when I could—now at the market. I stirred the frothy white liquid for a moment or two. I needed that much time before I could look at my brother again.

Dries said, “I want to take you home with me when I go at the end of the week.”

Defeat robbed me of words.

Of course.

He hadn’t stopped by merely to ensure I had not sunk under the turbulent waves of widowhood’s despairs.

“You’ve known happiness,” he said quietly.