Chapter 27 The Drawing
Should I stop her from drawing?
The thought hits me so fast it nearly steals my breath. A sharp, irrational urge surges through my chest. Take the crayons. Scoop them up in both hands. Dump them into the trash like they are something dangerous. Something that should not exist.
I have never felt that before.
Not about crayons. Not about my daughter.
But the last few times Maya has drawn something, the images have carried a weight to them. A heaviness that lingers long after the paper is put away. Shapes that don’t feel like imagination. Details that feel… remembered.
The crayons are scattered across Naya’s coffee table like the aftermath of a small, colorful storm. Reds worn down to soft nubs. Blues snapped in half and sharpened again. A yellow with tiny teeth marks along one side, evidence of some absent-minded moment earlier in the day. Paper is stacked unevenly, some pages blank, others covered in looping shapes and half-formed figures.
Maya sits on the rug in front of the table, legs tucked beneath her, leaning forward with careful intention. Her small hand reaches up to the tabletop and back again, selecting each color with thought. She isn’t scribbling. She isn’t distracted. Every line is deliberate.
Her spine curves in focus. Her tongue rests at the corner of her mouth.
She hums softly to herself, low and tuneless, like she is keeping time with something only she can hear.
Nothing about the setup is unusual.
That’s the problem.
I stand near the couch with my arms crossed, pretending to scroll through my phone while watching her from the corner of my eye. The room smells faintly of coffee, crayons, and whatever citrus cleaner Naya swears by. Afternoon light pours through the windows, warming the wood floor and catching dust motes midair. The house feels suspended, like it is holding its breath.
Naya’s voice drifts from the back of the house, muffled by distance and a closed door. The clink of dishes. The soft thud of cabinet doors. Normal sounds in a normal home.
Yet something in my chest refuses to settle.
“Mama,” Maya says without looking up.
“Yes, baby?”
“I’m almost done.”
My throat tightens. “Okay.”
She reaches for one last color, stretching on her knees to grab it from the table. Then she carefully lifts the paper free, turning herself in a small, slow circle on the rug. She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t bounce with excitement.
She simply holds it up to me.
“I drew her,” she says.
The words land heavier than they should.
I step closer, my pulse ticking a little faster. The drawing comes into focus in layers. Thick blue crayon pressed hard along the bottom edge of the page. Water. Or a child’s version of it. Darker strokes slice through the blue, uneven and deep, like waves or shadows.
At the edge of it stands a woman.
Her body is angled slightly away. Weight shifted to one hip. Arms tucked close to her sides. Her head tilts just enough to suggest she is listening for something behind her.
Behind her stands a man.
Not touching. Not reaching. Just close.
My breath catches painfully in my chest.
I know that posture.
I don’t know how I know it. There is no memory attached. No clear image rising to the surface. Just a sharp, instinctive recognition. The woman’s shoulders. The subtle tension in her back. The way her feet are positioned, one turned outward, like she is bracing without realizing it.
It’s me.
The realization hits my body before my mind can question it. My skin prickles. My palms grow damp. Something tightens beneath my ribs, like a cord being pulled.
“Maya,” I say carefully, keeping my voice soft, “who is she?”
She shrugs, unconcerned. “She’s by the water.”
“And him?” I ask, nodding toward the man behind the woman.
She studies the drawing like she is seeing it for the first time. “He’s just there.”
Eli has been leaning against the far wall, quiet and watchful. I feel his movement before I hear it. He steps closer, stopping just behind me, his gaze locking onto the paper in my hands.
His expression changes.
Not confusion. Not surprise.
Something sharper.
His eyes trace the man’s stance. The angle of his legs. The space between his feet.
Eli goes still.
“What do you see?” I ask softly, not looking away from the drawing.
He takes a slow breath, then lets it out. “The way he’s standing.”
My pulse jumps. “What about it?”
“He’s grounded,” Eli says. “Like he knows the terrain.”
Maya’s head pops up. “Yeah. That.” She points at the man’s feet with her crayon. “He stands like he knows where to put his feet.”
The room tilts.
Eli’s jaw tightens, muscles shifting beneath his skin. He doesn’t say anything else, but the silence he leaves behind feels heavy. Intentional.
I lower myself onto the edge of the rug, the drawing still clutched in my hands. My eyes keep returning to the woman’s back. The tension there. The familiarity I can’t place.
I don’t remember water.
I don’t remember a man standing behind me.
But something inside my chest loosens anyway, just a fraction, like a knot testing whether it is safe to give.
“Mama?” Maya’s voice wavers.
I force a smile and kiss the top of her head. “It’s beautiful, baby.”
Her shoulders relax instantly. The moment passes for her as quickly as it arrived. She turns back to the table, already reaching for another crayon, already absorbed in whatever comes next.
But I stay where I am.
The paper trembles slightly in my hands.
Eli crouches beside me. “You okay?”
I nod, though I am not sure it is true. “She keeps drawing things like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like they’re memories,” I whisper.
He doesn’t argue.
We sit there quietly, watching Maya hum and color, watching the afternoon light stretch across the floor. The house feels too still. Like something is listening.
My eyes drift back to the drawing.
The water. The woman. The man who knows where to place his feet.
There is no violence in the picture. No fear. No urgency.
Just proximity.
Just presence.
That unsettles me more than anything else could.
“Should I stop her?” I ask.
Eli studies Maya’s small, focused form. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because whatever she’s putting on that paper,” he says gently, “she’s carrying it whether she draws it or not.”
The truth of that settles into my chest.
I glance down at the drawing one last time before carefully placing it on the table beside the others. My fingers linger on the edge of the page longer than necessary, like I am afraid it will vanish the moment I let go.
Maya laughs at something in her head and switches to a purple crayon.
The normalcy feels fragile.
But it’s still here.
For now, that has to be enough.