By G.R. LeBlanc

After weeks and countless hours, it’s complete—my current miniature project: a two-story dollhouse trimmed with blue shutters. Every piece has been meticulously crafted, glued, and painted, and in the bright yellow kitchen, nothing is out of place. I admire the pristine black-and-white checkered tiles, a stark contrast to my muddy-paw-print covered floors.

What would it be like to live in this tiny, perfect world, where laundry and dirty dishes never get out of hand, and no one ever gets tired, angry, or frustrated? I imagine myself shrinking down and sitting at the tiny table, enjoying a wee cup of tea.

But then, Ollie’s barking snaps me back to reality. I glance up through my workshop window and see the kids’ bright orange school bus wind its way down our country road.

When I reach the front door and swing it open, Ollie launches down the steps. I can’t help but smile as he tears down the driveway to meet his favorite tiny humans.

Above me, our massive golden-leaved oak trees rustle in the breeze, and I hug myself against the chill. 

When the bus screeches to a halt, the kids hop off. Bethany leads, her wild blonde hair bouncing, with my youngest, Ethan, trailing behind her. They giggle as Ollie herds them toward the house.

In the kitchen, Ethan flops to the floor with his backpack and dives into it. He pulls out a piece of paper covered in bold, bright swirls of color and hands it to me.

“I made it for you,” he says through a gap-toothed grin. 

I kiss the top of his head and place his artwork on the fridge. Through the kitchen window, a warm ray of sun finds me, chasing away the fall chill.

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G.R. LeBlanc is an Atlantic Canadian haiku poet, fiction writer, and managing editor of The Hoolet’s Nook, an online publication dedicated to short-form writing. Learn more about her at https://sleek.bio/grleblanc.