Chapter 1

Katheryn

I hustle through the crowded sidewalk, my hand firmly wrapped around Dustin's small fingers. The Manhattan hustle flows around us like a river around stones. I breathe in deep, letting the cacophony of horns, chatter, and distant sirens fill my lungs.

"Mom, look!" Dustin points to a street performer making giant bubbles that catch the mid-morning sunlight in rainbow prisms.

"I see, baby. Isn't that something?" My canvas bag bumps against my hip as we pause, the weight of sketchbooks and charcoals a comforting presence. The wooden handles of my brushes poke through the top, worn smooth from years of use.

New York City. Our new beginning. The West Coast sunset views are behind us now, traded for this concrete jungle that somehow feels more like home than I expected. Three days in the city, and already I feel the creative pulse synchronizing with my own heartbeat.

"Can I touch one?" Dustin's eyes widen with wonder as a bubble drifts within reach.

"Go ahead, but gently." I loosen my grip on his hand, watching him step forward with the careful concentration only a five-year-old can muster. His small fingers reach out, popping the iridescent sphere with a squeal of delight.

The performer winks at me. "Got a future bubble master there."

"Thanks." I drop a five into his collection hat. "We're headed to Central Park. Any good spots you recommend?"

"With the little one? East side playground near 76th. Can't miss it."

I tug Dustin back to my side as the crosswalk signal changes. "Hear that, bud? We're finding you a playground."

"Will there be kids like at our old park?" His question holds no worry, just pure curiosity.

"Even more. This city has millions of people, remember?" I shoulder through a cluster of tourists stopping abruptly to photograph skyscrapers. "Aunt Michele says there's a great playground with a water feature for hot days."

Coming back east makes sense. Michele's been begging me to move closer since Dustin was born, and my college friends scattered across Brooklyn and Queens keep apartments with spare bedrooms perfect for weekend visits. The network I never had on the West Coast awaits us here—people who knew me before, who might help rebuild what I lost.

The park unfolds before us in a surprising expanse of green amid the gray and glass city towers. I inhale the scent of grass and pretzels from a nearby vendor.

"Can I play in the sandbox?" Dustin bounces beside me, already spotting the playground ahead.

"Ten minutes, then water break." I settle on a bench with a good view, pulling my sketchbook from my bag. "Stay where I can see you."

"Kay!" He's off like a rocket, his sneakers kicking up wood chips as he runs.

I watch him approach the sandbox, where three other children are constructing an elaborate castle system. My fingers itch to capture the scene—the concentration on their small faces, the careful architectural decisions made with plastic shovels and determination.

Within minutes, Dustin is integrated into their operation, assigned to moat-digging duty with solemn importance. His laugh bubbles up, carrying across the playground to where I sit. The sound strikes my heart in that peculiar way—pure joy mixed with a hollow ache.

My charcoal moves across the page, capturing his profile, the curl pattern on the crown of his head that's so like mine. He has Theodore's eyes, though—something I both treasure and fear as they grow more recognizable each year.

A family settles on the adjacent bench—mother, father, toddler. The father lifts their child high above his head, spinning in circles to delighted squeals before passing her to her mother with a kiss for them both. I force my eyes back to my sketch.

Dustin's laughter rings out again as one of his new friends says something, and they collapse into that full-body mirth that only children can achieve. I smile despite the twinge in my chest.

This is what I wanted for him—friends, normalcy, a childhood unmarked by the complications that drove us west in the first place. But watching him play, seeing his easy joy mixing with these strangers' children, I can't help wishing for more. A partner on this bench beside me. Someone to share in these small, perfect moments. Someone to help carry the weight of raising him right.

My charcoal pauses mid-stroke. The longing for that traditional family constellation feels suddenly sharp, like a papercut—small but surprising in its sting.

I shade Dustin's eyes on the page with gentle, circular motions, bringing out the depth that always reminds me of his father. Even in charcoal, they hold that same intensity, that same spark. My fingers smudge the edge, creating a soft shadow beneath his cheek. Five years old and already he carries this perfect blend of us both.

Just a few feet away, he's architecting sandcastles with newfound friends, his small hands working with surprising precision. I watch him over the top of my sketchbook, this miracle child who changed everything.

Before him, I had such grand plans. My mind drifts back to those studio nights at art school, the smell of linseed oil and turpentine, the way my canvases would lean against every available surface in my tiny apartment. My professors called my work "viscerally evocative," said I had a future in gallery spaces across the country. New York was always the dream—just not quite like this, not as a single mother starting over.

I flip back through earlier pages in my sketchbook, past the quick studies of Dustin sleeping on our cross-country train journey, past the half-finished landscapes of our last weeks in California. There, in the middle pages, are the concept drawings for what was supposed to be my breakout collection. Bold strokes, vibrant potential, all tucked away when the pregnancy test showed positive and Theodore's family showed their true colors.

"Higher!" Dustin shouts as another child helps him pack sand onto their growing structure. His joy pulls me back to the present.

I run my fingers over those old sketches. The collection was going to be called "Intersections"—explorations of heritage, identity, and belonging through abstract urban landscapes. The irony doesn't escape me now; my son is the ultimate intersection, carrying bloodlines that his paternal grandparents deemed unsuitable for their precious family tree.

Despite everything, I've kept creating. Between diaper changes and midnight feedings, during nap times and playground visits, my fingers have never stopped moving. My style has evolved—sharper now, more defined, filled with contrasts that weren't there before. Motherhood hasn't dulled my vision; it's focused it.

I flip to a fresh page and begin sketching the playground scene before me, but with fantastical elements emerging from the equipment—dragons curling around the jungle gym, fairy wings sprouting from children's backs. Ideas flow when I least expect them, usually in these stolen moments while Dustin plays.

A memory surfaces of Theodore standing before one of my paintings in his father's gallery, his eyes tracking every brushstroke. "You see things others don't, Kathy," he'd said, his fingers hovering just above the canvas surface. "It's like you paint what's underneath reality."

That night was our beginning—the wealthy gallery owner's son who was going into business and the scholarship artist with too many opinions. We were combustible from the start, passionate and reckless in equal measure. I believed him when he said his family's views wouldn't matter, that our love existed outside their prejudices.

"Mom! Mom, look at our castle!" Dustin waves frantically, drawing my attention to an impressively structured sand fortress.

"Amazing architecture, baby!" I call back, pushing away the memories.

The truth sits heavy in my chest: I still miss Theodore sometimes. Miss his laugh, his unwavering belief in my talent, the way he'd describe colors he saw in my work that I hadn't even recognized myself. But the man who promised to stand against his family's judgments crumbled under pressure when it mattered most.

When the pregnancy test read positive, everything changed. My biggest mistake was letting his mother know before anyone else did, hoping that she would be happy at the thought of a grandson. Instead, she ruined my life, threatened me, forced me out of this city without giving a proper explanation to Theodore why I was running away.

I look down at my sketch of Dustin. Despite everything, I can't regret a single moment that brought him into my life.

My phone buzzes with an email notification—the art supply store confirming my order for new canvases and paints. The small Harlem apartment we've rented has a second bedroom I've already designated as my studio space. For the first time in five years, I'm claiming space purely for my art.

Michele pulled strings to get me an interview with her friend's gallery next week. My portfolio needs updating, my concepts need refining, but the fire that first pushed me toward art school is rekindling. This time, I'm not just creating for myself—I'm building a foundation for both of us.

I trace Dustin's profile on the paper once more. The doubts and fears still linger at the edges of my mind, but they no longer control the center. My art sustained me through the darkest days of my pregnancy, through the lonely nights of early motherhood. Now it will build our future.