I could not argue. I’d had joy in my marriage, more than most. In this apartment, and the one three floors above, I’d woken every day with the man I loved. We rose together, made eggs and tea together, laughed together. When he left for work—selling everyone’s paintings but Vincent’s, because despite his repeated entreaties, Goupil would not carry them—I could hardly wait to have him back for lunch.

“I have known true love. And you had none.” Annie continued to make him miserable. Even having children hadn’t helped.

“You could leave Vincent’s legacy with one of his other siblings.”

“I don’t think Cor is coming back from South Africa anytime soon.” Cor was the third Van Gogh brother.

“Wilhelmina, then. She was Vincent’s favorite sister.”

“She works as nurse and can barely support herself. She has no connections to the arts, nor the time or funds to take on such a quest.”

I waited for my brother to finally acknowledge that my way was the right way, the only way, but instead, his mind always on practical matters, he said, “We could strip the canvases. The thin wood used for stretching, I can easily break over my knee and reduce to kindling. You could gift it to your neighbors. The folded canvases can be fed into your stove one by one. They’ll provide you with a night of warmth. The very act might set you free from the past. Consider it a way of saying good-bye.”

For some reason, my numb mind could only think that since Vincent preferred painting outside, on his easel, at least his canvases were of a reasonable size. “Imagine trying to burn one of Claude Monet’s giant pieces.”

“Oh, many people do imagine,” Dries said with thick irony. “He is still criticized for the unfinished quality of his work, for not making his lines more precise.” He waved the idea of Monet away. “If only he didn’t buy that house and lock himself away in Giverny. Now he wastes half his time gardening. Do you know he’s having ponds dug and plans to paint waterlilies? It will be the end of him in the profession.”

“How sad.” Monet was the most successful of the group of Parisian artists who’d broken with academy tradition. He had tasted poverty and even bankruptcy, but he was beginning to sell. His house was far from Paris, in the country, but still, unheard of riches compared to Vincent’s earnings that never paid a single month of rent. “I’m happy for Monet’s success.”

I hoped it wouldn’t be as temporary as my brother predicted.

Wil grabbed my ankle. “Milly.”

“Yes, darling. More milk.”

He didn’t speak clear words yet, but soon. Those words, however—if Dries had his way—would be spoken somewhere else.