“Dylan!” I yell from the bathroom while I attempt to apply mascara, but it’s so old that it’s dried out. “Ten-minute warning,” I say, turning the knob on the rusty sink to slowly add some water to the mascara. I swirl the brush in the tube, and it helps a little bit but not much. After one coat, I give up, closing it and opening the cracked mirror medicine cabinet. The bathroom is from the seventies, for sure, with moss green tiles everywhere. What used to be white grout is discolored to a dark yellow now. The tub is the same moss green color with lines of rust down it.

Walking out of the tiny bathroom, I turn off the lights, then step right into the living room that holds the small kitchen table with two chairs. Dylan sits on his knees while he eats his cereal, holding my phone in his hand as he watches YouTube videos about hockey. All he does every single time he has my phone or is on the computer is watch hockey plays or highlights. I think it’s why he got so good. That and the fact he loves the ice.

“I’m going to go get dressed,” I say, but he barely looks up from my iPhone. Walking into the bedroom I share with him, I open the closet door and see the six items that I own hanging. I grab the pair of jeans I wore yesterday and pair it with my gray and white striped short-sleeve shirt, tucking it in the front of my jeans. Then I pick up my black running shoes and slip them on.

The sound of my phone beeping lets me know that it’s time to go. “Mom!” Dylan shouts. “Time to go,” he says, and I walk out of the room and look at him. He takes his bowl to the sink and gets on his tippy toes to turn on the water and rinse it out. His shorts from last year are way too short for him this year and a bit too tight around his waist, but until I get my paycheck, they will have to do.

“Are you ready?” I ask him, smiling when he turns around wearing his own smile. His happiness lights up the room and my heart. He’s missing his two front teeth, his eyes are a baby blue just like his father, and his hair is a mixture of blond like me.

“Ready,” he says. Wiping his hands on his shorts, he nods his head and grabs his hockey bag at the door. I look at it, and I know that by the time the new season starts, he’s going to need a bigger bag since his equipment also needs an upgrade. He opens the door, and I close it behind me, locking the door. We walk down the hot hallway, then the five flights of stairs toward the parking garage.