We're Married, After All - Chapter 93 - Summer
As summer arrived, Ireneo became much more adept at handling charcoal. Naturally, he spent more and more time drawing.
So, I ordered a small easel for the child. It was an early gift for someone not even a year old yet, but I felt it would suit him.
And I was right. Though he couldn’t use it properly, the easel became Ireneo’s favorite toy. He wanted to carry it around wherever he went.
After bringing it along on a few picnics, he started insisting on taking it with him every time we went out to the garden. Especially in the afternoons when he could spend time with Danel, he would sit in front of the easel and refuse to move.
In the end, having a short picnic before his nap became a regular routine for Danel and me. Today was no different.
I watched Ireneo sitting in front of his little easel, gripping his charcoal, making sure he didn’t fall over. He could walk if he had something to hold onto, but he still wasn’t steady on his feet.
Just then, Ireneo, who had been gazing at the garden on the other side of the mansion with his green eyes, turned his body toward the easel. His little face took on a serious expression, and he began to move the charcoal in his hand.
I couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. For a moment, someone else’s image overlapped with his. Maybe it was a stretch to compare that clumsy hand to my husband’s skilled artistry, but to me, they looked exactly alike.
Hearing my laughter, the child pressed down harder with his charcoal, as if imitating the man I was thinking of.
He certainly liked drawing—or, more precisely, he liked copying Danel as he drew.
Of course, for now, he was only scribbling lines or randomly smearing charcoal.
Who knows how long he had been drawing things that weren’t quite pictures? Suddenly, he dropped the charcoal onto the ground.
Then, he completely turned away from the easel and looked at me.
“Uuuuh, uuuh.”
Ireneo whined in his clear voice. He wanted something.
‘Yes, this is the biggest difference between you and Danel.’
I let out a small sigh.
Unlike Danel, Ireneo had a habit of putting me in difficult situations. Whenever drawing got too hard, he would immediately push the charcoal onto me. And since he tried to copy whatever I drew, I couldn’t even sketch something carelessly.
“What were you drawing today?”
I adjusted my posture to match his eye level. Then, I alternated my gaze between the paper on the easel and the garden.
“…Hmm.”
A sigh of hesitation escaped my lips.
The child had drawn something that resembled a large rose tree.
The tree was covered in lush, white roses, each bloom shining a pale ivory under the sunlight—an undeniably beautiful sight. But it seemed far too difficult to capture in a drawing.
Nervously, I picked up the charcoal.
I decided to start with the easiest part—the branches and stems.
But after drawing just a few lines, I realized that was a mistake. It looked more like a menacing flail than a rose tree.
In the end, I had no choice but to start drawing the one thing I least wanted to—rose petals.
“Uuh?”
As I finished my third flower, Ireneo tilted his head with a curious sound.
“…”
I had no excuse.
No matter how generously one looked at it, my drawing wasn’t much better than the child’s scribbles—except for the fact that it had a bit more form.
“Pfft.”
Just then, a small chuckle came from a little distance away.
I shot a glare at the man who had been painting us from across the way.
I had thought he was watching quietly today, but it seemed he could no longer hold back his laughter.
“Help me already.”
“It would be better to tilt the charcoal more. Thicker lines will help define the shape. Hold the tip of the charcoal and let the side of your hand rest on the canvas. Also, loosen your grip a little.”
Following Danel’s instructions, I moved the charcoal. A broad, rough stroke appeared.
“…Like this?”
“Hmm.”
Danel responded with only a faint smile.
I drew the next petal in silence.
Eventually, I completed one rose, but Ireneo’s eyes were still filled with doubt.
At last, Danel got up from his chair and walked over to me. Soon, his long, sculpted fingers wrapped around mine.
It was a trick—to satisfy the little critic who would start crying if the drawing wasn’t to his liking.
With his hand over mine, he gently traced a few overlapping petals, as if engraving the movement into my body rather than my mind.
After he let go, I tried to mimic his movements.
But it was useless.
Though my strokes now followed his technique, the result was just as strange as before—only in a different way.
Seeing my newly drawn rose, Danel murmured in a soft voice,
“We should give Ireneo an extra snack.”
He meant that it would be best to put the child to sleep before he could get disappointed by my poor drawing skills.
It was a harsh truth, but I couldn’t deny it. Ireneo was a bright child, and if things continued like this, he would definitely sulk over my failure to draw the rose tree properly.
Rather than making him cry, it was better to distract him with a treat and brush his teeth again later.
I pulled a honey-soaked fig from the snack bowl and held Ireneo in my arms.
The child, upset that his drawing time had been interrupted, pouted.
But faced with his favorite snack, his frustration quickly melted away.
While Ireneo happily chewed his treat, I turned my gaze to the man standing in front of the large easel.
Everything around him was still, as if a painter had captured the scene in a single stroke—except for his hands and eyes, which moved with tireless precision.
I watched him, admiring the way his purple eyes flickered with movement beneath his long lashes, as if lost in a moment of quiet artistry.
