The Portrait

Miriam was kept but kept well, pampered even, without need to work or wed or endure the shame of aging within her parent’s rooms. Aunt Mimi had left her a life of solitude and luxury. And so, though the sight of it prickled her skin and stole her breath, she did not throw out the package in the foyer. She would open it, and hang it, and allow its eyes to watch—to leer—because it was a gift from Aunt Mimi.