Chapter 9

My parents gave their lives to protect Oliver and me. That year, I lost my father, who planted olive trees for me, and my mother, who loved me dearly.

Of course, his abusive father died too, but he wasn't upset in the slightest and couldn't understand my grief. After that, I never painted Oliver's portrait again.

At first, I blamed him. I blamed him for taking away the home I had and trapping me in my own world, unwilling to step out. I resented him for taking me from my grandfather, locking me away in his house, and later even using my grandfather to force me into marriage with him.

In those years, Oliver loved me deeply, in his sick, twisted way. I tried to convince myself to keep going, to forgive him, because, at that time, he was just an innocent child. Every time I felt like giving up, I would go to the garden and look at the olive trees, drawing branches on the wall that would never wither.