Chapter One: Instalment 3 - When the life you built begins to feel too small for the woman you’re becoming…

Continuing to work on this bouquet

When the life you built begins to feel too small for the woman you’re becoming…

The day unfolded as it always did. Smoothly. Efficiently.
Emails responded to. Table cleared. Linen napkins folded, not because anyone noticed, but because it pleased her. There had always been a quiet satisfaction in tending to details — it was her way of bringing beauty to the ordinary.

But lately, even that had begun to dull.

She moved through the house she had once adored, aware of how little of it truly belonged to her anymore — not legally, but emotionally. The walls held her, but they didn’t reflect her. Not really. Not in the way they used to. The colour palettes were muted. The art had been chosen to impress, not to move. She had traded sentiment for style.

It hadn’t felt like a trade at the time.

The kitchen was spotless, of course. The marble island gleamed, untouched. The fragrance of sandalwood still lingered in the air, as it always did. Everything functioned beautifully. Seamlessly.

But she was beginning to notice something else.
That the life she had built — the life and the relationship she had once longed for — had become more of a performance than a home.

She couldn’t remember the last time she was asked her how she was.
Not in passing. Not in the way people say it before they move on to themselves.
But really asked. And really listened. He was often buried in his work, or his screen.

She was depended on, expected, even taken for granted — but she rarely felt ‘seen’.

It hadn’t happened all at once.
That’s the thing about quiet erosion — you don’t notice it until parts of you are already missing.
Until you realise you’ve memorised everyone’s schedules, food preferences, the names of colleagues you’ve never met… but you’ve forgotten what music you like to wake up to.

She was still herself. Technically.
But more and more, that self had been buried under usefulness, expectation, the one who steadies and runs the ship at home.

She no longer wore perfume just for the pleasure of it.
She used to — even on Wednesdays. Especially on Wednesdays (date night).
Back when scent felt like a signature, not an afterthought.
Back when she walked a little lighter, smiled more easily, and felt, in her bones, that she was adored.

There were moments still — flickers — when she caught her own reflection and remembered.
A version of herself that once felt effortless. Certain.
The version of herself she had slowly been editing out in service of the life she thought she wanted.

And yet, something was beginning to stir.
A whisper, perhaps. Or a pulse beneath the surface. Her inner voice was growing louder.

The sunflowers in the hallway had turned slightly since yesterday.
Their golden faces angled now toward the east, unapologetic in their desire for the light.

She noticed that.
She noticed them.

And for the first time in a long time, she wondered if she might turn toward something too…….

✨ Stay tuned for the next instalment……her story will continue to unfold through my
upcoming posts and paintings.
This is only ‘Chapter One - The Turning Point’ of Evangeline’s story.

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SYMBOLISM IN THE PAINTING

🌻 Sunflowers
In this moment of subtle reckoning, the sunflowers carry a different message than before.

Still reaching for the light, yes—but now that reaching feels more conscious. More deliberate.
They are no longer just a symbol of joy, but of inner clarity.
Of knowing—deep down—that something must shift.

They stand tall despite the stillness around them.
They reflect a quiet courage: to face the truth of what is,
and to begin searching for what could be.

They echo her emerging awareness—
not a crisis, but a soft uprising.
A gentle defiance against the version of herself that’s been slowly fading.

🌼 Daisies
The daisies bring a tender innocence.
They are simple, unassuming… and yet, deeply symbolic.

Of purity—not perfection, but honesty.
Of beginnings—the kind that often start as a whisper before they roar.
And of the small, beautiful truths we overlook in the busyness of life.

They hint at Evangeline’s essence—
the part of her that still believes in something more,
even if she hasn’t named it yet.

Together, the sunflowers and daisies speak to her inner world:
Complex, layered, quietly blooming, turning to the light.

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