After we brought Mateo home, I used to tell him the story when he was old enough to understand.
« You were so strong, » I would say while tucking him in. « And when things were hard, good people helped us. There was even a man in a red hat who stepped in when we were drowning. »
Mateo loved that part.
« Like a superhero? » he’d ask.
« Yes, » I’d smile. « Exactly like that. »
Now Mateo is eight and we don’t have much.
We live in a small apartment with secondhand furniture and a kitchen table that wobbles unless you wedge a folded napkin under one leg. I work two jobs now m0rnings at a bakery, evenings cleaning offices. It’s exhausting.
But Mateo always has paper and pencils. Drawing is his world.
About six months ago, his pictures changed. He stopped drawing rockets and dinosaurs. Instead, he began drawing the same man.
Tall, bright red shirt, red hat, and a simple smile. The picture had no background. It was just the man, standing there.
