Page 28 of All Your Dreams

For a moment, I simply stand there, taking the art all in. There’s an intimacy to such galleries that never fails to move me. Every piece is an act of courage, someone revealing a part of themselves and asking strangers to look closely.

“You picked a good day to stop by.”

I turn toward the voice and spot a woman around my mom’s age approaching us with an easy smile. Her dark curls are pinned loosely on top of her head and dried blue paint smudges across one wrist.

“Why’s that?” I ask, confused.

“Because the studio next door hosts family art classes every Friday afternoon,” she explains. “Today’s session starts in about twenty minutes.”

A dull ache blooms beneath my ribs. I hadn’t realized how quickly I’d ruled myself out of something as simple as a family activity. Still, I manage a small smile in response.

Her eyes soften as she looks toward Tilly sleeping peacefully. “How old is your little one?”

The innocent question lands like another punch to the gut. Your little one.

This isn't how I pictured my life. I always assumed I'd have a baby of my own by now, not be caring for someone else's. Not because I mind looking after Tilly—I already adore her—but because I thought I'd be building a family with the man I married, not picking up the pieces of the life we were supposed to have.

“Almost three months,” I answer, not telling her that I’m the nanny.

“She’s adorable.”

Tilly chooses that exact moment to sneeze loudly. The woman laughs warmly. I smile despite myself before glancing toward the neighboring storefront. A painted sign beside the door reads Tiny Hands Art Studio. Underneath hangs another sign with block letters saying FAMILY SUMMER ART SERIES.

I picture myself walking in, surrounded by actual parents while I stand in the corner pretending I belong, not entirely sure who I am these days. The nasty part of me screams the class isn’t my place to be. But then another, softer voice says, You’re important in Tilly’s life too.

“You know what?” I say before I lose my courage. “Why not?”

The woman beams. “That’s the spirit.”

Ten minutes later, I’m standing awkwardly inside Tiny Hands Art Studio questioning every decision that brought me here. The faint smell of finger paint and crayons hangs in the air. Around me, mothers unpack diaper bags and settle babies onto soft mats spread across the floor. Every single survival instinct inside me whispers, run.

Tilly squirms as I lift her from the stroller and settle onto one of the cushions near the back. “You and I are committed now,” I whisper to her. “No socially awkward escape routes left.”

A soft chuckle sounds beside me. “I had the exact same expression before my first class.”

I find a blonde woman around my age settling beside me with a chubby baby balanced against her shoulder.

“Was it that obvious?” I ask.

“A little,” she admits. “I’m Lucy, by the way. And this little menace is Axel.”

Axel lets out a startlingly loud burp. Lucy sighs dramatically. “Such grace and elegance.”

I laugh before introducing myself. “I’m Peyton. And this is Tilly.”

“Tilly is ridiculously cute.”

“And she’s well aware of the fact.”

The instructor moves around the room greeting everyone while parents settle in. Some babies babble happily while others look moments away from emotional collapse and crying.

“You live nearby?” Lucy asks while adjusting Axel on her lap.

“I actually just moved here recently.”

“Oh God,” she says immediately. “Are you surviving the heat okay?”

“It definitely hits differently than back at home in California.”