Sometimes, Claire Taylor found it hard to believe her son was only eight years old.
He still wore mismatched socks. He still asked for extra custard. He still shouted "Mum!" from the stairs like the house was a stadium and she was on the other side of the pitch.
And yet, lately… he didn't feel quite so little anymore.
Claire leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms folded, tea growing lukewarm in her mug. From the dining table, Nate was hunched over a sheet of homework, tongue poking from the side of his mouth as he scribbled down answers with serious concentration.
Except he wasn't silent.
He was humming.
It wasn't just idle noise, either—it was deliberate, gentle, almost rhythmic. The tune wove through the late afternoon like birdsong, and every few bars he'd pause, erase something, or tap the pencil twice on the wood.
Claire smiled softly.
He wasn't just doing math homework. He was multitasking—with melody.
She should've known this would happen.
It started with that first advert. Cadbury. A silly, simple job. A bite of chocolate and a smile. And suddenly, her son was showing up in living rooms across the country, laughing through mouthfuls of cocoa.
And then the second ad—chocolate cereal and cartoon monkeys.
And now this: stock portfolios, financial proposals, and singing lessons. All before he'd hit double digits.
Claire sat down slowly at the kitchen table, careful not to disturb him. Her tea was stone cold now, but she didn't mind. She watched him with that same quiet awe she'd felt since he was a baby—except back then, it was marvelling over how he could hold his own bottle. Now he was holding dreams.
Big ones.
Too big?
That was what kept her up sometimes.
Not the bookings. Not the agents or contracts or makeup chairs or even the tiny glimmer of fame.
No. It was the fear that maybe, just maybe, they were letting him run too fast toward a world he didn't fully understand. That maybe, in a few months or years, he'd burn out—or worse, lose himself in it.
He was a child. Still fragile. Still forming.
She had seen it before—child stars who fell apart before they ever had a chance to become real people.
And yet… when she looked at Nate, it didn't feel like that.
He wasn't obsessed with the limelight. He wasn't even bragging at school, as far as she knew. In fact, she'd caught him brushing off compliments like they embarrassed him.
No, there was something else driving him. Something quieter. Deeper.
A sense of purpose.
Maybe it was because he'd always been thoughtful. Or maybe because he'd never really played like the other boys. While others were rolling in the mud, Nate had always been the one to wander off and invent stories for the trees. He could sit with Rusty for hours just watching clouds. There was a part of him—an old soul, perhaps—that always seemed to be waiting for something more.
And now he'd found it.
Acting. Music. Creativity.
He wasn't chasing fame.
He was chasing himself.
Claire glanced over at the laundry basket near the door. Half-folded clothes. A sock hanging like a flag of surrender. Life, in all its chaos. But right now, she didn't care.
Instead, she looked at her boy, still humming under his breath, pencil tapping along like a makeshift metronome.
The song—it wasn't one she knew. It didn't sound like anything from TV or the radio. Which meant… he was making it up.
Claire blinked.
Was he writing music?
She stood up quietly and tiptoed to the other side of the doorway, just out of sight. From there, she listened.
The tune was simple, but clean. It looped once, twice, then shifted—a change in key, a stretch of the tempo. Then he muttered something, crossed something out on a different page, and tried again.
Her eyes softened.
He really was writing something.
A child creating music after finishing times tables. What kind of little miracle was that?
Maybe she didn't need to worry so much.
Maybe he wasn't being pulled along by the world. Maybe, just maybe, he was leading.
Still, she'd be lying if she said it didn't feel like everything was happening so fast.
Two months ago, he was building blanket forts and pretending to be a dragon slayer. Now he had a cereal contract and a minor crush on the concept of dividends.
She remembered giving him his first spoonful of mashed banana. How he'd made the most dramatic face—as though she'd fed him vinegar—and then demanded more two seconds later.
She remembered his first steps, how he'd tottered and crashed into the armchair with the biggest grin on his face, proud even in failure.
She remembered the night he had a fever at two years old and she sat by his bed for six hours straight, counting breaths and praying it was nothing serious.
She remembered everything.
And now he was growing up.
"I'm done!" Nate called suddenly, standing up and stretching like an old man.
Claire quickly returned to the kitchen, trying to look casual. "Homework?"
"All finished," he said, slapping the book shut. "And I only had to look up, like, two answers."
She raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"
"I triple-checked."
"Triple?"
"Okay, double. But one of the triples was emotional."
She laughed and ruffled his hair as he passed her, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl.
Then, in a quieter voice, she said, "I heard you humming."
He paused mid-bite.
"Oh. Uh... yeah. Just a tune in my head."
"It was lovely."
He shrugged, cheeks pink. "I'm just playing around. I like making up stuff. It's fun."
She nodded, then asked, "Do you want to write songs?"
Nate hesitated.
Then he smiled—small and real. "I think I want to do everything."
Claire blinked. "Everything?"
"Yeah. Act, sing, maybe write a book, or direct movies. I just want to try it all."
There was no arrogance in his voice. No greed.
Just wonder.
And curiosity.
And the kind of raw, innocent ambition that only children—or maybe dreamers—could carry.
Claire's throat tightened.
She crouched in front of him, brushing a bit of hair from his forehead. "As long as you're happy doing it," she said softly. "Not because someone told you to. Not because the world claps for you. But because you want it."
"I do," he said.
"Then that's enough."
He beamed, and for a second, she saw the toddler version of him again—the same eyes, the same grin, the same dimple on the left cheek.
"Can I still be famous though?" he added cheekily.
She chuckled. "If that's what you want, go for it. But no matter what, you'll always be my boy."
"Even if I become Prime Minister?"
"Especially if you become Prime Minister. I'll call you at work every day."
"Mum!"
"Every. Day."
Nate laughed, then bolted off with Rusty hot on his heels, yelling something about writing a theme song for their dog.
Claire watched them go, her heart a little fuller.
Yes, he was growing up fast.
Yes, the world might try to pull him in a thousand directions.
But he had a compass.
And right now, it pointed somewhere joyful.
Somewhere true.