The Easel

It was Christmas Eve, and the apartment smelled like cinnamon wax melts and survival.

I had three kids, a fake tree with two working light strands, and a spirit held together with clearance tape and caffeine. It was our first Christmas without him, without the man who used to hold the screwdriver while I read the instructions. Except now I was both roles. Builder and reader. Mom and makeshift Santa. Soft place and steel spine.

Sarah was five. Brendan, three. Aidan, ten and already carrying more silence than any boy should. They were tucked in, probably dreaming of toy commercials I couldn’t afford. And me? I was cross-legged on the living room floor, knee-deep in an art easel and the realization that nothing ever looks as easy as it does on the box.

There were screws labeled with letters, washers shaped like regret, and instructions in a language I swear required a mechanical engineering degree.

I wanted so badly to make it magical. To make them believe in wonder, even if I couldn’t afford wrapping paper that matched.

But somewhere between screw C and dowel H, something snapped.

It wasn’t dramatic. No sobbing. No slamming of parts. Just me, frozen, with a screwdriver in one hand and my breath caught somewhere in the center of my chest. It came out in a quiet kind of collapse- the kind where your body folds before your voice even knows what to say.

I didn’t cry because of the easel. I cried because I was tired. Tired of being the only adult in the room. Tired of pretending I wasn’t hurting. Tired of holding everything together with zip ties and grace.

Eventually, I got it built. Not level. Not stable. But it stood.

Which, if I’m honest, described me pretty well at the time too.

The next morning, Sarah screamed like the easel had been dropped down the chimney by angels themselves. Brendan ran around in his underwear with a candy cane, and Aidan just watched me, quietly. Always watching. I offered him a crooked smile and a cup of cocoa that was mostly milk.

Later, Sarah pulled me over to the easel and said, “Mama, paint with me.”

“I don’t know how,” I told her.

She shrugged like I’d said something ridiculous. “Just try anyway.”

So I did. I picked up a brush and dipped it into the closest color, red. Not cherry red. The deeper kind. The kind that lives in rib cages. Then some black. A bit of white. No plan. No design.

Just a woman, curled into herself. No face, just the shape of her ache. Arms hugging knees like she was holding herself together. I didn’t even realize I was painting me until I stepped back and saw her.

She wasn’t pretty. But she was honest.

I painted more after that. Mostly women. Bent, bruised, faceless women who reminded me of the strength it takes to feel and stay anyway. It became a ritual. After the kids went to bed, I’d sit with a mug of tea and let the colors tell the truth I couldn’t say out loud.

The easel stayed with us for years. Got new stickers. A few dents. More glitter than any one object should legally hold. But I kept that first painting. And every time I saw her, I remembered that night, not as a breakdown, but as a breakthrough.

The moment I gave myself permission to feel without fixing.

That Christmas didn’t have matching pajamas or Pinterest-worthy gifts. But it had me, showing up, shaky and paint-stained. It had children who believed in magic because I tried to build it from nothing.

And maybe the easel wasn’t the gift after all.

Maybe the real gift was letting myself come undone long enough to remember how to begin again.