It was her time. Kids dropped off at school, errands done, husband on his way to work, a healthy lunchtime treat, packed by her, sitting on the empty seat next to him. There were chores waiting on her once she went back home. Dishes in the sink, laundry to put up, a dog to walk and bathe who was probably burying one of his rawhide bones in their sofa at that very moment. But now, as she set her canvas on the easel, took out her brushes and paints and inhaled deeply, taking in the natural beauty of the gardens, the vibrant colors, the lush greenery, the quiet, the woman who gave baths and made lunches seemed miles away. Her shoulders relaxed. For the next hour, all she had to be was her true self, the artist. The girl she was long before she became a wife, mom, courier, short-order cook, and dog groomer. These hours, alone in the garden, had saved her. She smiled secretly and began to paint.
Prompt provided by Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers!