Vincent was larger than life. I could hear him extolling his latest pieces in the kitchen, his passion a brightly burning flame. I admired his focus, but, as he went on, barely taking a breath, I also found it relentless. I could see how living life with such intensity could make a person sick from time to time. Fire like that had to be carefully fed. When I left the woodstove untended because I was distracted by the baby, the flames burned themselves out in short order.

Wil finished nursing, and I buttoned up, then laid a cloth on my shoulder and propped him against me. “I hope to know your uncle Vincent a lot better before he leaves. He is my brother now as much as Dries.”

I rubbed the baby’s back for several minutes, as the doctor had recommended, and waited for the air he had suckled into his little stomach to escape. Then I laid him on the bed and changed his wet diaper. I barely had to rock him after that before he fell asleep again. I settled him into his cradle then rejoined the men.

Theo was holding up a large painting in the middle of the parlor, his face lit with pride. “Look at Vincent’s gift for our son.”

Pink-white almond blossoms sparkled against a blue sky. The colors nearly vibrated off the canvas, as intense as the artist himself. “Extraordinary. I’m sorry I’m not smarter and can’t describe it better. It’s… Thank you, Vincent.”

“For above the piano,” he said in French.

And while I ate, awake just enough not to fall off my chair, he insisted the picture be hung right then. When Theo brought out the hammer, I could have cried. Of course, little Wil woke at the first loud bam! I left my plate and went to console him, but an hour passed before the child was asleep again.

While Theo and Vincent laughed at some old story, I cleaned the kitchen. Afterwards, I completed my mending. The men discussed galleries and the latest artistic trends.

They didn’t notice when, hours later, I rose to make dinner. After which, I fell into bed alone, setting Theo’s alarm clock—a clever new invention—so I could hurry to the market at first light.

I heard them even as I was falling asleep, the conversation switching to Dutch again.

“You must tell me the truth,” Vincent said. “Am I a burden?”

“Nonsense. You work harder than any man I’ve ever met. You will see success.”

“Everything I have is yours.” Vincent’s voice was thick with emotion. “Every painting I brought. Everything I shall ever make.”

“I am thinking about leaving Goupil,” Theo told him. “I want to open my own gallery.”

This was followed by a long silence, during which I fell asleep.