Chapter 1

Ally

"Puppy says good morning, Mommy!"

I crack one eye open to find Caleb standing beside my bed, his stuffed puppy's nose pressed against my cheek. The alarm clock reads 6:17 AM—thirteen precious minutes of sleep stolen.

"Does Puppy know what time it is?" I groan, pulling myself upright.

"Kitty knows!" Caleb thrusts his other plushie toward me. "Kitty says it's breakfast time!"

"Well, if Kitty says so..." I swing my legs over the bed, mentally calculating the morning's tetris game. Shower, breakfast, pack market supplies, check Caleb's homework, and somehow transform into a functioning human before 8 AM.

Caleb bounces ahead of me down the hallway. "Can we have pancakes?"

"Not today, buddy. How about eggs?" I shuffle toward the bathroom, catching my reflection—hair wild, yesterday's mascara smudged under my eyes.

"With the yellow parts all runny? And can I dip my toast in them?" His eyes light up with anticipation.

"Exactly how you like them, yolk perfect for dipping." I ruffle his soft curls and gently point him toward his room. "Go pick out your clothes while I shower. And try to match your socks today, unlike your fashion-challenged mom."

Fifteen minutes later, I'm standing at the stove in completely mismatched socks—one purple polka dot, one striped green—flipping eggs with one hand while stuffing my sketchbook, loose pencils, and a half-dozen paint samples into my overflowing market tote with the other. The bathroom mirror had confirmed my worst suspicions: I looked like someone who'd been dragged backward through a hedge. A quick shower and minimal makeup had only elevated me to "possibly functioning adult."

"Caleb! Five-minute warning! We need to hustle today!" I call down the hallway, listening for the telltale sounds of a five-year-old attempting to dress himself.

He appears at the kitchen table moments later, shirt on backward, tags sticking out proudly, one pant leg bunched up at the ankle, clutching his slightly crumpled homework folder against his chest. His face beams with pride as he announces, "I drawed a picture of us on the back of my math page. You're holding my hand and we're at the park and there's a dog and everything!"

"Drew, honey, not drawed. And let's see your masterpiece after breakfast, okay?" I slide perfectly cooked eggs onto two mismatched plates, adding slightly browned toast I somehow managed not to completely burn. The butter melts into the warm bread, and I cut Caleb's into triangles the way he likes. Small victories in the chaos of single motherhood. I'll take every damn one I can get.

While Caleb eats, I organize my market display in my head. The watercolor landscapes sold well last weekend. Maybe the new abstract series will catch someone's eye today. I pack brushes, extra canvases, and business cards I printed at the library.

"Mom, can you help me with my numbers?" Caleb pushes his homework across the table, egg yolk smeared across one corner.

"Let's wipe this first." I clean the page and sit beside him. "Okay, what's giving you trouble?"

As Caleb counts aloud, my mind drifts to the gallery downtown that just put out a call for new artists. The deadline's next month. Between my call center shifts and Caleb's schedule, I'd need to pull all-nighters to prepare a proper submission.

"Mom? Is this right?" Caleb's voice pulls me back.

"Perfect, buddy. You're getting so good at this." I check the clock. "Quick, go brush your teeth while I finish packing."

Alone for a moment, I open my sketchbook to a half-finished painting. Bold strokes of blue and purple sweep across the canvas—better than anything I've done in months. With the right exposure, this could be something. I close my eyes and let myself imagine it: my work hanging in a real gallery, people gathering around, discussing the emotion behind each piece. No more customer service headsets, no more selling paintings for barely enough to cover supplies.

My phone buzzes with a reminder for my afternoon call center shift. Reality check.

"Mom! I can't find my other shoe!" Caleb calls from his room.

I tuck the canvas carefully into my portfolio case. Dreams will have to wait their turn, as they always do.

"Coming, buddy!" I call back, closing the sketchbook on possibilities that will have to wait for another day.

I find Caleb's missing shoe wedged beneath his bed, nestled among a graveyard of forgotten crayons and mismatched action figures. By some miracle, we make it out the door only seven minutes behind schedule.

"Race you to the car!" Caleb bolts ahead, backpack bouncing wildly against his small frame.

The morning rush hour in Los Angeles has already transformed the streets into a crawling metal caterpillar. I navigate through the congestion while Caleb chatters about dinosaurs and which kid in his class can jump the highest. My eyes flick between the road and the rearview mirror, where I catch glimpses of his animated expressions.

"Mom, when I grow up, can I be an artist like you?" He kicks his feet against the back of the passenger seat.

The question catches me off guard. "You can be anything you want, baby."

"But I wanna be like you."

Something warm and painful swells in my chest. Pride, definitely pride, but also a gnawing worry that coils around it. Is this what I want for him? The constant hustle, the rejection letters, the calculations of which bill can wait another week?

"You're already an amazing artist," I tell him, meaning every word. "Remember that butterfly you painted last week? Ms. Garcia hung it on the special wall."

He beams, but then his expression turns serious. "Tommy said his dad is taking him to Disneyland for his birthday. He said everyone needs a dad."

The traffic light turns red, and I'm grateful for the moment to compose myself. "Families come in all different shapes, remember? Some kids have two moms, some have grandparents raising them, some have—"

"But I have a dad somewhere, right?"

Ah. The memory of Caleb's dad. Or rather, the lack of them. I met Charles on a fateful night, going through a messy break-up. Our one-night stand should have been a careless mistake that I could look back on fondly. And I do think about it fondly, because it gave me the most special little boy I could have ever asked for. Caleb.

"Yes, you do." I keep my voice steady, fighting to keep the quiver out of my tone. "And he'd be so proud of the amazing boy you are. So, so proud." I add the last part in a whisper, almost to myself.

We pull up to the elementary school drop-off line. The morning chaos is in full swing; kids with oversized backpacks stream from minivans and SUVs, teachers with coffee cups clutched in one hand greet them with bright morning smiles, and harried parents wave goodbye before checking watches and rushing off to jobs and responsibilities that won't wait. Another day in the delicate balancing act we all perform.

"Mom?" Caleb unbuckles his seatbelt with a click, his small fingers working the mechanism with practiced ease. His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, serious and searching. "Are we gonna be okay?"

The question punches me in the gut with unexpected force. Five years old and already sensing the precariousness of our situation. The past-due notice on the kitchen counter. The whispered phone calls to the electric company. The careful calculations I make at the grocery store. He notices everything.

I pull out of the line, ignoring the impatient honk behind me, and park in a nearby spot. Turning to face him, I try to pour every ounce of reassurance I have into my expression.

"Come here, baby." I open my arms, and he climbs between the seats for a hug, his small body warm against mine. His backpack catches on the gearshift, and I help him untangle it. "We are more than okay. We're fantastic. You know why?"

He shakes his head against my shoulder, his curls tickling my chin. I can feel his heart beating, quick like a little bird's.

"Because you're the most special, smartest, kindest boy in the whole wide world," I say, squeezing him tight, breathing in his scent of apple shampoo and the peanut butter toast he had for breakfast. "And I'm the luckiest woman ever because I get to be your mom. Nothing else matters as much as that."

He pulls back, studying my face with those searching eyes that see too much. "And you're the best artist in Los Angeles."

I laugh, blinking back unexpected tears. "Well, that's debatable, but thank you."

"Ms. Garcia says when you believe in yourself, magic happens." He says this with such conviction that for a moment, I believe it too.

"Ms. Garcia is very wise." I straighten his collar and smooth his wild curls. "Now, go show your class that magic."

He grabs his backpack and lunch box, then pauses at the car door. "Will you paint something special today?"

"I'll paint something just for you," I promise.

As I watch him join the stream of children entering the school, his small shoulders squared with confidence, I make a silent vow. Somehow, some way, I'll make this work. The art, the bills, the single parenting, all of it. Not just surviving, but building something beautiful for both of us.

Because Caleb deserves a mother who chases her dreams and catches them.