English
Nathan knew that his parents had had a vision of what his life would be like when he grew up and finally became an adult, imagining a successful architect, lawyer, doctor, engineer... but the reality was far from that dream, which, although it pained their souls, would never be fulfilled. He couldn't even be bothered by the noticeable disappointment they felt every time they saw him because he himself felt that way when he looked in a mirror, precisely because his vision of what his adult life would be never included a frustrated writer who had lost the will to live and sat in the living room of his small rented apartment staring at nothingness while sipping a cup of cheap tea, in an attempt to find some emotional stability.
Where was the giggling child who was proud to have finished his book about the dinosaurs that were lost on the moon? Where was all that creativity that overflowed from his pores without fear of what others would say? Since when did it affect him when his father told him that writing was not a real job and that he should leave that fantasy behind? Little Nathan would have told him that he was wrong! However, the problem was that he was no longer little Nathan, he had grown up and his vision of the world had changed little by little without his realizing it, and the spark that made him see the world with his eyes shining with curiosity to discover everything that was within his reach had been extinguished.
Sudden tears clouded his vision, a sob getting caught in the lump in his throat for a second to come out with desperation seconds later, breaking through that barrier he had created around his feelings so that they would not end up manifesting themselves, because that would mean having to accept that that deep sadness that made his chest ache as if someone was squeezing his heart was real. He could not help but end up lying down on the floor, his body simply seemed to have stopped obeying him, letting himself be carried away by the sensations that were overflowing him, so he did not even notice that at some point he had dropped the cup, now in pieces with its contents scattered at his side.
The tea on the floor began to spread to wet one of his hands, that helped him to reconnect with the world, taking a deep breath so that his accelerated breathing could calm down. Either way he remained there without moving even after regaining his composure, staring at the ceiling with a blank mind. When he felt the wetness of the tea on his hand again, he noticed it for a second as he finished removing the liquid with the help of his own clothes. Now he could remember when his hands were never clean, as a child he loved to draw the characters of his stories and used to use paints because it was more fun, but his mother at one point forbade him to do so because he had stained the furniture.
This made him wonder where his drawings would be found, they must be in a box somewhere since his mother had taken care of giving him all his belongings when he moved out, she wasn't a woman of many sentimentalists to keep them as a memory of his childhood, but at least she wasn't so bad to have thrown them away in the trash either, within everything he had to be grateful for that. Thinking a little better, he was almost certain that they were in one of the boxes under his bed, so he finally got up from the floor on a mission to find it as a purpose, his feet resting across the apartment quickly, for he was dying of curiosity to remember what his childhood drawings looked like, those that had been forgotten until now but for which he felt fondness.
Finding the box caused a big smile to form on her face for the first time that day, dragging it into the light with excitement. All that was inside were drawings, fragments of handwriting mined with mistakes and even some attempts to turn socks into the characters that had ended up in misshapen figures. He could feel all the illusion he had as a child in each of the things he was taking out, the love he put into his stories as if they were a treasure and it made him feel ashamed because there was none of it left. With the drawing of a bird with rainbow feathers, he let out a sigh of acceptance, because even though he wanted to keep denying it, he had not been happy with what he was doing for a long time.
“How long has it been since I've done what makes me happy?”
At that instant, he heard someone call out to him from the living room.
“Nathan?”
“I'm here, Zoey!” He raised his voice for her to hear him.
“I called you a couple of times earlier and..." Stopping in the doorframe after seeing him, Zoey stopped talking and hurried to his side, sitting down on the floor. "Have you been crying?” She asked worriedly.
“I think I've been doing things wrong, Zoey. I stopped doing what made me happy by trying to find a middle ground between what others wanted me to do and what I wanted to do, but it's not working out.”
“Nathan, you know I've always supported you in whatever it is you want to do.”
“Even if that means making children's books?” Nathan muttered.
“Children's books?” She asked in confusion.
“Yes... I can see myself writing books to make children feel better about themselves, books that let them know that they are appreciated for who they are, that it doesn't matter what others say, that they should always follow their dreams.” He looked at her. “I want to dedicate something to our son that represents me, not some stupid book I never wanted to write but thought was going to make us money.”
Zoey hugged him, stroking his hair.
“Our son will be proud to have a father as talented and creative as you, I don't want you to have any doubts about that. The only vision I have had for our life is to be happy, and so far you have been an exemplary partner, sweet, respectful, who has tried to put aside his dreams for his family... but a real family doesn't make anyone give up their dreams, it helps them achieve them, and that's what I want to be for you, a support.”
True to her word, Zoey was there supporting him, even helping him realize that he had indeed achieved his dream when he finally had the copy of his first children's book in his hands, one titled 'Mr. Tobbs Learns to fly' that would also be the first book his son, Tom, would read. If he had been told that during a moment of vulnerability he would find his way back to being completely happy he would never have believed it, but there he was, watching his son grow up next to his books, the ones that now made him feel content. Of all the visions he had had of his future, that was the best, because it had become a reality he enjoyed every day and he would not change it for anything.
Español
Nathan sabía que sus padres habían tenido una visión sobre lo que sería su vida cuando creciera y se convirtiera finalmente en un adulto, imaginándose a un exitoso arquitecto, abogado, doctor, ingeniero… pero la realidad se encontraba muy lejos de ese sueño que aunque les doliera en el alma jamás se cumpliría. No podía siquiera sentirse molesto por la notable decepción que sentían cada vez que lo veían porque él mismo se sentía así al mirarse en un espejo, precisamente porque su visión de lo que sería su vida adulta nunca incluyó un escritor frustrado que había perdido las ganas de vivir y se sentaba en la sala de su pequeño departamento alquilado observando a la nada mientras tomaba una taza de té barato, en un intento por encontrar algo de estabilidad emocional.
¿Dónde había quedado ese niño risueño que se sentía orgulloso por haber terminado su libro sobre los dinosaurios que se perdieron en la luna? ¿Dónde había quedado toda esa creatividad que le desbordaba por los poros sin miedo a lo que dirían los demás? ¿Desde cuándo le afectaba que su padre le dijera que escribir no era un trabajo real y que debía dejar atrás esa fantasía? ¡El pequeño Nathan le hubiese respondido que se equivocaba! Sin embargo, el problema estaba en que ya no era el pequeño Nathan, había crecido y su visión por el mundo poco a poco había cambiado sin que se diera cuenta, apagándose esa chispa que le hacía ver el mundo con los ojos brillando con curiosidad por descubrir todo lo que estaba a su alcance.
Las lágrimas repentinas nublaron su visión, un sollozo quedando atrapado en el nudo de su garganta por un segundo para salir con desesperación segundos después, traspasando esa barrera que había creado alrededor de sus sentimientos de manera que no terminaran manifestándose, porque ello supondría tener que aceptar que esa profunda tristeza que le hacía doler el pecho como si alguien estuviese apretándole el corazón era real. No pudo evitar terminar recostándose en el suelo, su cuerpo simplemente parecía haber dejado de obedecerle, dejándose llevar por las sensaciones que lo estaban desbordando, por ello no notó siquiera que en algún momento había dejado caer la taza, ahora en pedazos con su contenido esparcido a su lado.
El té sobre el suelo comenzó a extenderse hasta llegar a mojar una de sus manos, eso lo ayudó a volver a conectarse con el mundo, respirando profundo para que su respiración acelerada pudiera tranquilizarse. De cualquier manera siguió allí sin moverse aún luego de recobrar la compostura, mirando el techo con la mente en blanco. Cuando sintió otra vez la humedad del té en su mano, se fijó en ella por un segundo al terminar de quitarse el líquido ayudado de su propia ropa. Ahora podía recordar cuando sus manos nunca se encontraban limpias, de pequeño le encantaba dibujar a los personajes de sus cuentos y acostumbraba usar pinturas porque era más divertido, pero su mamá en un momento se lo prohibió porque había manchado los muebles.
Esto lo hizo preguntarse dónde se encontrarían sus dibujos, debían estar en alguna caja ya que su madre se había encargado de darle todas sus pertenencias cuando se mudó, no era una mujer de muchos sentimentalistas como para guardarlos como un recuerdo de su niñez, pero al menos tampoco era tan mala para haberlos botado en la basura, dentro de todo tenía que estar agradecido por eso. Pensando un poco mejor, estaba casi seguro de que se encontraban en una de las cajas debajo de su cama, por lo que se levantó por fin del suelo en la misión de encontrarla como propósito, sus pies descansos atravesando el departamento con rapidez, pues moría de curiosidad por recordar cómo eran sus dibujos de niño, esos que habían quedado olvidados hasta ahora pero por los que sentía cariño.
Encontrar la caja hizo que por primera vez en el día se le formara una gran sonrisa en el rostro, arrastrándola hacia la luz con emoción. Todo lo que estaba adentro eran dibujos, fragmentos de escritos a mano minados de errores y hasta algunos intentos de convertir medias en los personajes que habían terminado en figuras deformes. Podía sentir toda la ilusión que tenía cuando era niño en cada una de las cosas que iba sacando, el amor que le ponía a sus historias como si fuesen un tesoro y le hacía sentirse avergonzado porque ya no quedaba nada de eso. Con el dibujo de un pájaro con plumas de arcoíris, soltó un suspiro de aceptación, porque aunque quisiera seguir negándolo, desde hacía mucho que no se sentía feliz con lo que hacía.
— ¿Desde hace cuánto que no hago lo que me hace feliz?
En ese instante, escuchó a alguien llamarlo desde la sala.
— ¿Nathan?
— ¡Estoy aquí, Zoey! —Alzó la voz para que lo escuchara.
— Te llamé un par de veces antes y… —Deteniéndose en el marco de la puerta después de verlo, Zoey dejó de hablar y se apresuró en llegar a su lado, sentándose en el suelo— ¿Estuviste llorando? —Preguntó preocupada.
— Creo que he estado haciendo las cosas mal, Zoey. Dejé de hacer lo que me hacía feliz intentando encontrar un punto medio entre lo que los demás querían que hiciera y lo que yo quería hacer, pero no está resultando.
— Nathan, sabes que siempre te he apoyado en lo que sea que quieras hacer.
— ¿Aunque eso sea hacer cuentos para niños? —Murmuró Nathan.
— ¿Cuentos para niños? —Preguntó confundida.
— Sí… puedo verme a mí mismo escribiendo libros para que los niños se sientan mejor sobre sí mismos, libros que les hagan saber que son apreciados por ser quienes son, que no importa lo que los demás digan, que siempre deben seguir sus sueños. —La miró— Le quiero dedicar a nuestro hijo algo que me represente, no un estúpido libro que nunca quise escribir pero pensé que iba a darnos dinero.
Zoey lo abrazó, acariciando su cabello.
— Nuestro hijo estará orgulloso de tener a un padre tan talentoso y creativo como tú, no quiero que tengas dudas sobre eso. La única visión que he tenido para nuestra vida es la de ser felices, y hasta ahora has sido un compañero ejemplar, dulce, respetuoso, que ha intentado dejar de lado sus sueños por su familia… pero una familia de verdad no hace que nadie abandone sus sueños, los ayuda a alcanzarlos, y eso es lo que yo quiero ser para tú, un apoyo.
Fiel a su palabra, Zoey estuvo allí apoyándolo, incluso ayudándolo a comprender que sí había conseguido alcanzar su sueño cuando tuvo por fin la copia de su primer libro para niños entre sus manos, uno titulado ‘El Señor Tobbs aprende a volar’ que sería también el primer libro que leería su hijo, Tom. Si le hubiesen dicho que durante un momento de vulnerabilidad se encontraría con el camino de regreso a ser feliz por completo nunca lo hubiese creído, pero allí estaba, viendo a su hijo crecer junto a sus libros, esos que ahora lo hacían sentirse satisfecho. De todas las visiones que había tenido sobre su futuro, esa era la mejor, porque se había convertido en una realidad de la que disfrutaba cada día y no la cambiaría por nada.