Chapter 6: Caleb’s Drawing

***

When I pushed open the half-closed door, Caleb was curled up on the wool rug, coloring. The crayon wax melted a little in the sunlight, leaving smudges on his fingers and the rug. The crayon tip dragged out three twisted shadows on the paper.

Sunlight pooled on the rug, catching the dust in the air. Caleb’s hair glowed copper at the edges. The quiet was heavy and strange.

I knelt in front of him, my voice trembling. “Is this our Caleb?”

He didn’t look up right away. His world is all lines and color, silence and focus.

His eyelashes fluttered, and he nodded softly. He pointed to the tall figure on the left. “Da...d.” Then slowly moved to the outline in a dress on the right. A broken whisper squeezed from his throat. “Mo...m.”

A tear slipped down my cheek, splashing onto the drawing. I reached out, wanting to gather him in my arms and never let go.

Big tears welled up in my eyes. I reached out, trembling, wanting to touch the top of his head. “You drew it so well.”

“No.”

He suddenly hugged his head and shrank back. The crayons clattered into the corner. “Hair... hurts.”

I froze, my fingers hovering above him, guilt and longing tangling inside me.

My hand hovered mid-air, scorched by sunlight. Just as I reached for the sensory brush, a scarlet barrage exploded:

[Caleb must be calling the main character.]

[The supporting character shouldn’t delude herself, right?]

The brush clattered to the floor. So the only one who was wishfully thinking... was always me.

I sat back on my heels, the realization burning through me.

At that moment, Rachel’s sweet voice pierced my eardrums. “Does Caleb miss Mom?”

Her voice was sing-song, practiced. I hated how easily it fit into this room, how Caleb’s head lifted at the sound.

As her pale yellow skirt brushed over the threshold, Caleb’s eyes curved into a smile. “Mom.”

I staggered back, bumping into the newly replaced photo frame on the wall. In the photo, Rachel had her arm around Caleb’s neck, and Jason’s hand rested on both their shoulders. My nails dug into my palm, flesh and blood blurred, but I couldn’t suppress the metallic taste rising in my throat.

The glass in the frame felt cold, grounding me for a second. I swallowed, the taste of pennies sharp on my tongue.

As I fled the room, Rachel’s light laughter rang behind me. Behind me, Rachel’s laughter rang out—bright, sharp, and final. Like a bell closing the door on my old life. Finally, I collapsed on the carpet in my own room, biting my sobs into the wound on my palm.

I pressed my hand against my mouth, muffling my cries. The world outside my door kept spinning—Rachel’s laughter, the housekeeper’s footsteps, the distant hum of traffic—but inside, everything was coming apart.