Dante couldn't move. Surrounded by his mother's paintings. By her vision. Her talent. Her soul preserved in color and canvas."I don't remember this," he said quietly. "Her painting. I was so young when she died. Only seven. I remember her smile. Her warmth. Reading to me. But not this. Not her art.""Maybe she kept it private. Personal. Something just for her.""Or maybe my father hid it. After she died. Too painful to see. To display. To be reminded of what he'd lost."Sienna studied the paintings. The technical skill. The emotional depth. The mastery evident in every brushstroke."She was extraordinary. Truly gifted. These aren't amateur work. These are museum quality.""Really?""Yes. The composition. The use of color. The emotion conveyed. Your mother could have been a professional artist. Exhibited internationally. Been recognized.""Why didn't she?""Maybe she chose family instead. Chose to be your mother. Alessandro's wife. Private life over public recognition."Dante touched
Read more