There was a woman who had come to our weekly art therapy group. She had just come out of hospital. She was that depressed.

'Long-term abusive relationship.' What does that even mean? You see the impact it has had on her. A face full of creases. Don't mistake them for smiling lines because creases like these don't come from smiling.

For a while I sat there, glancing shy little parakeet glances her way.

She was concentrating on her drawing. Her whole body leaning so intently onto the paper, like she wanted to disappear into it.

Everyone else finished and waited for her pencils to stop their frantic scribbling.

We went around in a circle. Exhibiting. Occasionally explaining.

She lifted her page up for everyone to see. A glow of colours swung their way into the room. I gasped. The paper was aswirl with golden pinks, shining oranges and washes of sunlight. The shapes were round and full. Two figures, embracing each other, their faces a picture of Leunig's bliss.

'This is my son.'
Her voice cracked.
'I just saw him on the weekend.'
A shuddering intake of breath.
'I wish I didn't have to leave.'

I broke inside.

And she hid the paper from sight.