Hearing Charlie’s laughter from the other room, I forget all about the man who just tried to give me a panic attack. I head toward the sound, trying to shake off the weird energy of the whole thing.
Charlie’s sitting on the floor playing with his toys, his giggles filling the air like sunshine. “You having fun, buddy?”
“Yeah!” He grins. “My toys love this living room. It’s so much bigger than any one we have ever had before.”
The simplicity of his statement hits me right in the chest. For him, this house is magical. It’s not the run-down structure that the realtor sees; to him, it’s a palace. It’s a safe haven.
My heart tugs as I look around. I know I need to sell this place. I do. But the thought of it, cutting ties to something that still holds so much of me, is harder than I expected.
How do you walk away from a place that’s been in your family for generations? A place where every crack in the ceiling and every creak of the floor carries a memory?
But I need to make a move soon. I need to make a decision one way or another. I can’t homeschool forever. Charlie needs stability and a routine. We need a permanent place to settle down.
What if that place was here…?
I shake my head. No. I need to focus on the future. On my plans. Whatever they may be.
I can hear the ticking of the clock, the days slipping by faster than I want them to. I need to figure this out. I actually need a plan.
“Okay, well, I’m just going to sit at my desk to work,” I tell Charlie. “I have a horse to draw.”
Charlie doesn’t seem to hear me. He’s already too busy organizing his toys into intricate little “cities” on the floor. His enthusiasm for imaginary worlds never gets old.
I pull my sketchbook from my desk drawer and flip to a fresh page, hoping to somehow summon some inspiration. The horse I’m supposed to illustrate is nothing like the one I’ve drawn a hundred times before.
This one needs to be wild, untamed, something out of a western movie. It’s supposed to look free, the kind of animal that runs without thinking about where it’s going.
Instead, what I’m getting looks more like a tired donkey than a proud stallion.
I tap my pencil against the paper, staring at the sketch like it’s personally offended me.
“Come on… come on, just… be a horse,” I mutter under my breath.
But it’s not happening. The pencil doesn’t care about my frustration, and neither does the paper.
Charlie, still engrossed in his cities, suddenly stops and glances over at me. His face is full of innocence and curiosity.
“Mama, can I help?”
I look over, half-expecting him to offer me some kind of bizarre solution involving a spaceship or a stuffed animal. But instead, he walks up to me and points at the drawing.
“Maybe the horse needs a race,” he says, his eyes wide with that pure, unfettered hope that only a five-year-old can have.
“A race?” I repeat, blinking at him.
“Yeah! Horses like to race, right? Make it run!” He throws his arms out like he’s mid-gallop.
I blink again, completely taken aback by his unfiltered logic. “You know what? That’s not a bad idea. Okay, let’s try that.”
I push aside the frustration that’s been creeping in and focus on what Charlie’s said. A horse running. Maybe that’s the key. I pick up my pencil again, determined to capture the spirit he’s describing.
I make a few new marks, an angle to the body, a sense of movement in the legs, and suddenly, there’s something. It’s not perfect, but it’s closer.
Charlie, as always, is the perfect little sidekick. He stands beside me, nodding as I work.
“See, it’s getting better!” he says, as if he’s the one doing all the heavy lifting.
“Yeah,” I laugh, putting down my pencil and leaning back in my chair. “I think you’re right, Charlie. It’s much better.”
