The Painter

Grace slid her hand over the doll’s face. She could feel the thread that held each button to the cloth. She was old for dolls, but it was one of the few things her mother gave her. She placed her doll down and pushed herself off the ground. With her hands out in front of her, she walked forward. One two three four... She counted each step in her head. Her mother let out a pained sigh; it sounded like exasperation and walked out of the room. Her heels clicked on the tile, and annoyance rang with each clack. Grace knew her mother was ashamed of her. Her older sisters were normal. She could feel the way her mother radiated pride when they were around. She didn't receive the same love.
As she bumped into the table, she felt around. There was the pungent smell of paint in the air stronger than it was on the rug. Her entire family consisted of successful artists. Her mother was always praising her sister's work. She had asked one day if she could paint as well, but her mother had just scoffed.

"You a blind girl, paint? You can't see let alone create a picture." Her mother had sputtered.

Grace felt around the table until she found a tube of paint. She gripped the cap and turned it until it came off. She squeezed all the paint out of the tube onto the table in anger. She could hear her mother's past words ringing in her ears. She felt the cool liquid on her fingers and made patterns and shapes, painting. The world was vast and confusing, but one thing was clear. She was Grace and no matter what her mother said she could do anything.