As he sat down at his small beaten up desk, he eschewed his father’s new affairs face and reached for an escape. The young boys face became pallid as he searched for just a single black pen to draw a world he could stay in for as long as he wished for. He grasped the pen after locating it, the sequin color he always gets before drawing appeared on his smooth face. The boy found a half written on sheet of paper and began to franticly scribble on the page with no hesitation to his moving hand. It first started out as myriad vertical lines attached to circle but, in his mind they looked like a mother and son holding hands. Then, he drew details on one of the lines he drew with curly corn yellow hair, thick apple red lips, a bright smile, a flowy snow white dress, and the thing he admired the most to draw; her hands. He knew he could do anything with her hands and as well as her arms. He could draw her arms wrapped around him in a warm embrace; her hands could wipe away his tears. The boy began to draw a smaller hand in the woman’s hand and connected an arm to the boyish figure body on that page. He sat up straight and stared down at his picture and frowned. The young boy then quickly wisped a smile on the stick figure that was supposed to look like him. Staring at his master piece, the young boy noticed and imperfection. Immediately, he began to draw a perfect little home with bright pink walls and yellow flowers hanging out of the window flower pots. He drew forth the single black pen onto his paper once more and suddenly a plethora of yellow flowers began to fill the page. Flamboyant flowers filled the left side then the right side of the house until there was no more room for anything else.
     He seemed to forget about dinner completely. The boy thought to himself “There is no time for dinner when you have a dream stuck in your head, waiting for be released.” And turned the paper over. Having nothing is perfect for creating. Additionally, the junior then began to blossom into something wiser; something older in a matter of minutes as he pressed his pen down on the paper eagerly. This time he drew the same woman only older and beside her he drew the same boy but, as a man. He hesitantly pulled the pen from the page and slumped down into his chair. Quietly, he sat for minutes on end, staring at the two hooding hands. Happy. The boy began to weep and the pen hit his image of a perfect family. Tears fell onto the paper until it was soaked and the pictured was ruined. He felt the warmth of his face turn into heat from a fire. Though he knew the more he wept, the harder it got to see the picture h drew of a mother he never had. He desperately tried to stop the weak sobs and breathless whispers of words not even he could make out. As he slowly calmed down, he remembered a time he had asked why. Why he didn’t have a mother.
     One year ago, the boys eyes followed every step his father took to the door to let another girl out of their house. Right as the door shut, he spoke
“Who was she?” and his dad continued to walk around as if he weren’t there. The boy frowned and turned around to face his dad’s back and asked again but louder.
“Who was she?!” His father’s answer was quick, but demanding.
“None of your business!” he paused then grunted, “Go to your room. I’m tired.” Ignoring his father’s orders, he spoke with the same volume as before and asked,
“Why?” he didn’t ask why he was told to go to his room, but why he was tired. Was he tired of him… or everything?
“’Why?’ Because I said so.” Taking no affect but Anger to his father’s words, once more he asked
“Why don’t you just have one girl? Is one just not enough?! Why don’t you settle down? Get married! What, are you afraid of commitment?” he paused and spoke through sobs.
“Why don’t I have a mom?” His father stood quietly through the heavy breathing the boy was letting out. His father did not have an answer; not an answer he could tell his son.
“Why…?” the boy began to regret everything he said. Once his common sense had come back to earth, it was too late, for he had spoken his mind.
     As he held onto his memory, he remembered the picture. It was nothing now. Only a dream stuck on paper. He was nothing. Only a nuisance to his father.

An everyday reminder of a mistake he made 12 years ago.