I cried every day for a month. At the end of the month there were no more tears and what came out was like the bile after vomit. I struggled for air as the tearless sobs racked through my small frame. My father was impressed. It was the first truly great display of emotion I had ever shown. He had always been disappointed at how sensible I was, how calm and easy-going. As a baby I would mew rather than scream. Now I was his perfect daughter. He even sat on my bed and held me, stroked my hair and called me his “sweet, sensitive baby.” I wanted to enjoy it. Although I could see his arms around me and his hands in my hair, I couldn’t feel them.

It didn’t help that we met there, in my parents’ house. I was still living at home and he was lodging. Like my parents and me, Liev was an artist. He was considerably better than I am. His art was far more imposing and complete than mine, which seemed inevitable since he was physically so much bigger than me; his huge hand could cover my entire face. In bed, I liked to lie across his chest, like a cat, and have him stroke my hair.

Although he discouraged me from sucking my thumb as I slept, it was an old habit I had never managed to shake.

From the start, Liev had babied me. Bought me stuffed toys from the children’s store, shampoo in the shape of a cat, invented a story for me about a magic bunny rabbit. I felt myself regressing, but it was so pleasant, like an afternoon nap stretched out over months. He helped me get to sleep, held me tight in the crook of his huge arm. I twirled the fur on his wrist to help myself nod off. I was so anxious back then. I was anxious about my painting, that it didn’t measure up to my parents’ expectations, that I could never emerge from their shadow. I would throw tantrums, convinced my work was childish, unformed, and crude.

My parents approved of the relationship. Mother took a photo of us entwined on the hammock that hung in the garden. Liev read to me as he petted my hair. After he left I lay in the hammock and couldn’t read because the tears had blurred my vision. I couldn’t eat because I only liked food when Liev cooked it, or when Liev undid the wrapper. I couldn’t even find it in myself to tie my own shoelaces.

“Go with it, Ruby,” gushed my father. “Utilize this pain. Use it to create, to start a revolution. A revolution in your heart and in your art.”

My art hung on the bedroom wall, Paul Klee-esque animal daubings.