Chapter 15 Tiny Bomb, Bigger Heart

Chapter 15 Tiny Bomb, Bigger Heart
You can hear the house before you see it.
From the tiny side parking spot, Hazel’s laugh cuts through the air—not the sweet commercial kind, but the high-pitched, piercing one that usually means one of two things: something just got destroyed, or something just got created in a very questionable way.
I climb the wooden steps, juggling my work bag and an empty thermos. The front door is half open, and there’s a trail of glitter on the handle.
Of course there is.
The second I push the door, the scene smacks me in the face.
The living room has transformed into an emergency kindergarten post-disaster. Colored paper, glue, blunt scissors, string, and something that was probably dry pasta in a previous life are now part of the floor plan. The coffee table is covered in newspaper, stacked with toilet paper rolls dressed in googly eyes and cotton. One of the cats, Mars, strolls by calmly… wearing a crooked paper crown.
“If the Health Department shows up right now,” I mutter, kicking the door shut behind me, “they’ll condemn this place and burn everything inside it.”
“MOMMY!” Hazel screams like I just came back from war. She launches herself off the couch, her little belly bouncing under her unicorn T-shirt, chubby legs plowing through a mound of crayons. Her short bangs cover half her forehead, one strand glued with glitter.
She crashes into my legs, hugs my knees, then immediately pulls back and lifts both hands, covered in dried glue and paper scraps.
“Look!” she says proudly. “I made a house.”
“I’m scared,” I answer on reflex.
Jade is sitting cross-legged on the carpet, her cropped white sweatshirt now decorated with watercolor stains. She’s holding a hot glue gun that should not be near anyone in this house except me. Gemma is on the other side of the table, glasses sliding down her nose, holding scissors and staring at the toilet paper creatures like a prosecutor evaluating defendants.
“Maya,” Gemma says, no preamble, “your child has just created a cult.”
“It’s not a cult!” Hazel protests, cheeks flushing. “It’s a toilet family.”
I close my eyes for a second. “Okay. I need a five-sentence explanation. Max. Who’s starting?”
Jade raises the glue gun like a mic. “Hazel said she wanted to build a castle. We gave her cardboard. Five minutes later she decided toilets also deserve a family.”
“And then she started dressing the toilet rolls in kitchen paper,” Gemma adds, pointing at one wrapped in flamingo-printed paper towel. “And gluing on googly eyes. I’m only here to make sure no fingers get sacrificed.”
Hazel spins around and lifts one of her masterpieces: a cluster of toilet rolls, used straws, and random craft feathers stuck on at wrong angles. On top of it, there’s a tiny seashell from the beach jar.
It is… an object. That’s all I’ve got.
“Mommy.” Hazel looks up at me with big, hopeful eyes. “This is our new house. This is Mommy.” She points at the tallest roll with two googly eyes and smeared pink marker pretending to be lipstick. “This is Daddy Luca.” Another roll, wrapped in blue paper with a tear around the neck. “And this is Hazel.” The smallest one, with way too much glitter and two bent straw arms.
“Why does Daddy Luca look like he’s being strangled?” I ask, tilting my head.
“Because he works,” Hazel says, like that’s the most logical answer in the world. “He wears a tie. This is the tie.” She pokes the torn paper around the roll’s neck.
Jade is shaking with suppressed laughter. “Your kid is a genius. This is art.”
“I’m an architect,” I say, staring at the toilet-paper house on my coffee table. “And this is an insult to every load-bearing system on earth.”
Hazel steps closer, shoving the house nearer to my face. Dried glue flakes off, glitter explodes everywhere. “Mommy likes it?”
I study the masterpiece. The scraps of paper are crooked, nothing lines up, the proportions are a crime. But there are three rolls in the middle, standing close together. On one, Hazel has written M A M I in big chunky letters. On another, L U C A. On the smallest one, H A Z E L, the Z backward.
I exhale.
“I like it,” I say, honest in a way that’s mildly terrifying. “I just don’t like that it’s all over my table.”
“This isn’t a table, it’s a stage,” Hazel argues.
“A stage for what? Human sacrifice?” I mutter, stepping closer. “Look at this.” I point at a smear of glue on the wooden edge. “Hazel. De. Cruz. What did Mommy say about glue?”
Hazel blinks, trying to recall. “Glue… is yummy?”
Jade loses it, laughing.
“NO.” I point at her with an imaginary spatula. “Glue is not yummy. Glue is not for eating, not for washing your hair, and not for drawing on the table Mommy is still paying off.”
Gemma adds, without looking up, “And not for use on cats. Hazel, I just had to peel two feathers off Bruno’s whiskers.”
Bruno, from God knows where, appears under the table with a gold star sticker on his butt. He looks like he has surrendered to his fate.
Hazel looks at Bruno, then at Gemma. “He wants to be pretty.”
“He wants to live,” Gemma corrects.
I lift the toilet-paper house carefully, making sure it doesn’t collapse. “Okay, little architect. We’re moving this toilet family to somewhere that isn’t next to electrical cables, yes?”
Hazel pouts, but nods. “But Mommy puts it right here.” She points at the low bookshelf by the TV where I usually stash small sculptures and shells.
“Of course.” I walk over, slide a small vase out of the way that—if I’m honest—I never actually cared about, and place the toilet family right in the center. “Ta-da. National gallery.”
Hazel does a little hop, her chubby feet smacking the floor. “Yaaaay.”
“If we ever have guests over and they ask what that is, I’m telling them it’s an installation about the water crisis,” I mumble.
Jade stands, slapping glitter off her leggings. “I can’t wait for Andreas—sorry, Moreau—to see this. He’ll faint, but like, in a good way.”
“Moreau is never setting foot in a house full of glue and unicorns,” I say. “Besides, he already has enough visual trauma from my paintings.”
Gemma looks at me over the rim of her glasses. “Speaking of visual trauma… how was the office?”
I drop my bag on one of the kitchen barstools and open a cabinet, hunting for a snack. I need something salty. “Office is fine. Clients are still insane, budgets are still lying, computers are still breathing. Standard.”
Jade crosses her arms, unsatisfied. “Did Daniel call?”
I go quiet for a fraction of a second. It’s enough. Gemma’s eyes narrow.
“Aha,” Jade says, pointing at me with a glittery finger. “That tone. The ‘I will pretend everything is normal until I die’ tone.”
Hazel has already checked out of the adult section. She’s back on the carpet, picking up another bare toilet roll and gluing on more googly eyes, four this time.
“This is a ghost cat,” she informs no one in particular. “He sees everybody.”
Gemma snorts softly. “A little creepy, but accurate.”
I rip open a bag of chips and pour them into a bowl. “Daniel sent the paperwork. The Altar transfer is happening. I sign tomorrow.”
Gemma waits. Jade waits. Even Hazel glances over, maybe because the word tomorrow picked up some weight.
“And?” Gemma pushes.
I set the bowl on the dining table, grab a chip, take a bite. “And… the patron asked for a private viewing at the studio. Tomorrow. Four p.m.”
A small silence drops between the crunch of chips and the sound of the ocean outside.
“Private… what?” Jade is the first to speak. “Is this a blind date?”
“Jade,” Gemma warns.
“I’m just asking! It’s suspicious.”
“Private viewing,” I repeat, staring at the bowl instead of their faces. “Rich collectors like seeing artists’ studios. They love feeling like they ‘see the process.’ They pay, they get to look at my walls.”
Jade moves fast, stepping into the kitchen and planting both hands on the counter like she’s trying to stop me from bolting again. “This is not some random collector, Maya. This is Rafael. In. Your studio. Tomorrow.”
Hazel catches half of that and immediately pipes up, “Someone’s coming tomorrow? We’re having a party? With balloons?”
“NO balloons,” I say quickly. “This is not a party. This is… Mommy’s work.”
Hazel scowls, lips pursed in full drama. “Work is always ugly.”
Jade ignores Hazel, her eyes still locked on me. “Why did you say yes?”
“Because I don’t want to turn the gallery that just bumped my prices into an enemy,” I answer. “And because I’m a single mom with a roof loan. And because Gemma’s tax folder is full of numbers that give me a migraine.”
Gemma exhales. “I can’t argue with facts.”
Jade throws her hands up. “Fine. In that case, we make a plan. I’m coming tomorrow. I’ll sit in the corner of your studio with sunglasses on, pretending to be an assistant, but actually as security.”
“Jade, no,” I cut in.
“Why not? I own heels sharp enough to kill.”
Gemma raises one hand. “If Jade gets to go, I’m going too. Someone has to make sure there are no weird verbal contracts happening.”
“No,” I repeat, firmer. “This isn’t a CIA op. It’s just a shitty ex-fiancé playing art collector and coming to look at some canvases. I can handle it.”
Jade studies me for a long beat. “You say that like you believe it.”
Hazel, annoyed that she’s no longer the center of the universe, comes back over and tugs at my shirt. “Mommy, look at this.” She lifts the ghost-cat toilet roll, now with four eyes and one toilet-paper wing.