Chapter 1

Anna

The key clicks in the lock and I push open the gallery door, breathing in the familiar scent of paint and possibility. The afternoon sunlight streams through the windows, casting long shadows across my canvases. Leo darts past me, his superhero backpack bouncing against his small frame as he races to his favorite corner, the one with the comfy beanbag I put there just for him.

"Careful with the paintings, baby." I set my bag down and flip through the stack of papers on the counter, mentally cataloging each item. The exhibition I'm set to be apart of opens in two days, and my mind spins with everything left to do.

"Look, Mommy. I drew this at school today." Leo holds up a crayon masterpiece, his blue eyes sparkling with pride. Those eyes get me every time – a daily reminder of choices made and paths not taken. The same crystal blue that had once made my heart skip beats now looks up at me from my son's innocent face, full of pure joy and unconditional love.

"That's beautiful, sweetie. Want to hang it on your art wall?" I've carved out a special space just for him, right next to my workspace. A five-year-old needs room to create, especially one who spends his afternoons watching his mother chase her dreams with a paintbrush.

Leo tapes up his drawing while I adjust the lighting on my newest piece – an abstract exploration of motherhood in shades of midnight blue and gold. My fingers trace the texture of dried paint, remembering late nights spent working after bedtime stories and goodnight kisses.

"Can I have my snack now?" Leo tugs at my flowing skirt, leaving tiny handprints on the fabric. I don't mind. My clothes, like my life, are a canvas marked by the beautiful chaos of raising a child alone while building something of my own.

"Here you go, baby." I pull out his favorite crackers and juice box, watching as he settles cross-legged on the floor. He arranges the crackers in patterns before eating them – always the artist's son.

This gallery might be small, but it's mine. Every painting on these walls represents a piece of our story – the late-night feedings, the first steps, the preschool drop-offs. I've poured everything into my art, transforming our daily life into splashes of color and emotion.

"Mommy, when I grow up, can I have a gallery too?"

I ruffle his curls, so like mine. "You can have anything you want, Leo. The world is yours to paint."

I walk over to Leo's art corner, where his latest masterpiece joins dozens of others. His small hands have captured what looks like three stick figures – though with his artistic flair, they're decorated with swirling patterns and bold colors that make them uniquely his. After he finishes his snack, he comes up running beside me, eager to join me as I gaze at his work.

"Tell me about your drawing, sweetheart." I kneel beside him, and he points to each figure with sticky fingers.

"That's you, Mommy. See your curly hair? And that's me." He pauses at the third figure, his finger hovering. "And that's... that's my friend from school."

But I notice how he's drawn the tallest figure with bright blue crayon eyes, just like his own. My throat tightens. Even without knowing, Leo keeps drawing his father into our lives, filling that empty space with his imagination.

"Your hair looks just like mine." I touch the brown spiral he's drawn atop his stick figure, trying to keep my voice steady. But memories flood in uninvited – Nicholas's laugh, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, how safe I felt in his arms. We'd talked about our future, about the family we'd build together. Now here I am, watching our son create art in a corner of my gallery, and Nicholas doesn't even know he exists.

Leo hums while adding more swirls to his drawing, oblivious to the way my hands shake as I smooth down his shirt. Five years of raising him alone, of answering careful questions about why other kids have daddies, of seeing Nicholas's features emerge more clearly in Leo's face with each passing year.

"Do you want to add anything else to your picture?" I ask, swallowing past the lump in my throat.

"Maybe some stars." Leo reaches for a yellow crayon, his small face scrunched in concentration. "Everything's better with stars, right, Mommy?"

I press a kiss to his curls, breathing in his sweet scent, letting it anchor me to the present. "That's right, baby. Everything's better with stars."

The gallery lights flicker as the sun dips lower, casting longer shadows across my workspace. Leo's humming has shifted to quiet murmurs as he plays with his action figures, lost in his own world of imagination. My hands move automatically, organizing brushes and checking canvases, but my mind drifts to places I try to avoid during daylight hours.

"Spider-Man needs backup!" Leo's voice carries across the room. "Where's his daddy superhero?"

The question hits like a punch to the gut. These innocent moments – they're the hardest. Every time Leo mentions fathers or families, I second-guess the choices that led us here. The weight of single motherhood presses down, heavy as wet canvas.

I glance at my phone. Three missed calls from my landlord about this month's rent. Between gallery expenses and Leo's preschool, the numbers never quite add up. Nicholas's world of wealth and privilege feels galaxies away from our reality of careful budgeting and creative problem-solving.

"Mommy, look what Spider-Man can do!"

I paste on a smile, but memories surface unbidden. Nicholas's mother Gwendolyn, her cold eyes assessing me like a blemish on her perfect world. The way she'd cornered me in that coffee shop, sliding an envelope across the table. "Name your price," she'd said. "Just disappear."

I'd torn up her check and walked away, my hands shaking with rage and pride. But when I discovered I was pregnant weeks later, her words echoed in my head like a twisted lullaby. I knew exactly what Nicholas's world would do to a child born on the wrong side of their social divide. I'd grown up watching my own mother fight those battles, seen how each victory came at the cost of a little more of her spirit.

Leo deserves more than being treated as someone's mistake, more than becoming another topic of gossip at their country club brunches. More than whispered comments and sideways glances at charity galas, where old money types would judge him before he could even speak. More than a grandmother who'd try to buy his existence away with a check that probably meant less to her than her weekly manicure budget.

But God, some nights when Leo's asleep and I'm alone with my thoughts, I remember Nicholas's smile. His sweet words and gorgeous eyes. How he'd promised we'd face everything together, his hand warm and steady in mine. If he knew about Leo... if he knew he had a son who has his eyes and his laugh... No. I can't go down that road. Some doors are better left closed.

"Can we have pizza tonight?" Leo tugs at my shirt, pulling me back to the present.

I run my fingers through his curls – so like mine, while everything else screams Nicholas. "Sure, baby. Pizza sounds perfect. But Mommy has to finish up some work in here, and then we'll head out to grab pizza. How does that sound?"

"Great! Thanks, Mommy!"

"Have you finished your homework?"

"No, not yet. Mrs. Collins says we have to color just one page today!"

"Then get to it, baby. If you need more colored pencils or crayons, just ask me. I have hundreds."

While Leo works on his homework, I set up a fresh canvas near my easel. My fingers dance across various paint tubes until they find the perfect shade – a deep, rich purple that speaks of sleepless nights and quiet victories. I squeeze generous amounts onto my palette, mixing in touches of silver and midnight blue.

The first stroke across canvas feels like liberation. Each movement tells our story – the weight of grocery bags balanced with a squirming toddler, the pride of Leo's first words, the exhaustion of juggling bills and dreams. The colors blend and separate, creating depths that mirror the complexities of single motherhood.

My brush moves with purpose, carving out shapes that represent the spaces between what we show the world and what we feel inside. A spiral of golden light emerges from the darkness – Leo's laughter breaking through my toughest days.

Movement catches my eye. A young couple lingers by the window display, their hands intertwined as they study my earlier pieces. The woman leans closer to a painting I'd done of Leo's toy dinosaurs arranged in a dramatic battle scene. Her partner points to the price tag, nodding thoughtfully.

"What do you think about that one?" The woman's voice carries through the quiet gallery. "The colors are incredible."

My heart swells. These moments make every struggle worth it – watching strangers connect with pieces of our life transformed into art. Their genuine interest feeds a hope I keep tucked away: that someday my work will hang in major galleries, that Leo will see his mother's dreams take flight.

I add another layer to my painting, this time with strokes of resilient red. The color bleeds into the purple, creating something new and unexpected – just like life has a way of doing.

"Look, Mommy!" Leo holds up his completed homework. "I used all the colors, just like you do!"

I wipe my hands on my apron, stealing one last glance at the couple still admiring my work. They represent countless others who might one day stand before my paintings, finding pieces of their own stories in the strokes and shadows I create.