My Maxwell
MOTHER – Worn but warm. Holding too much
FATHER – A man trying to keep things together by pretending they still are.
MAEVA – Ideally nine or ten, but has had to grow up fast as the voice and only advocate for her older brother.
MAXWELL – A silent presence. Present throughout, physically expressive, but does not speak.
A fluid living space: dining, living, and possibly a kitchen that suggests a home but is not bound to realism. Locations shift without transition.
ACT I
SCENE 1
ACT I
SCENE 2
SCENE 3
SCENE 4
CHARACTERS:
SETTING:
MAXWELL’s bed is fixed and elevated permanently on stage. Dimly lit, eerie. MAXWELL is always visible there.
Consider ambient sound throughout: a baseball crowd, lullabies, ticking clocks, or low hums.
(Soft static. At rise, MAXWELL is seen stirring in bed. Small movements at first, growing more intense until his nightmare reaches a sudden stillness.
MOTHER is at the kitchen table, cleaning up dinner. FATHER is pacing. MAEVA is cleaning up, too, though nobody asked her to.)
MOTHER
Leave it, Maeva. I will do it.
MAEVA
It’s fine.
(Beat. FATHER exhales.)
FATHER
(To no one in particular)She’s going to need new cleats this season.(To MAEVA) Your feet are finally growing into that big kick. Real athletic… Coach said you have a great field sense.
MOTHER
Like him.
(They glance toward MAXWELL, who stirs slightly but does not rise. Beat.)
He never wanted cleats, though. He’d run barefoot around the diamond until his feet bled and blistered. Said the dirt made him faster.
FATHER
Do you remember when he wanted to pitch?
MOTHER
Yes, because he didn’t want to hit–
FATHER
(correcting MOTHER) –want to hurt the ball.
(they laugh)
MAEVA
He asked me if dreams could follow you when you’re awake.
MOTHER
When?
MAEVA
Tuesday after practice. I didn’t know what to say.
FATHER
(Reacts) He was just fine on Tuesday.
MAEVA
He didn’t have dinner with us.
MOTHER
That’s just middle school. Boys… they pull away.
FATHER
He didn’t eat dinner because he chose not to eat with us.
MAEVA
Maxwell doesn’t pull away from me. Did anyone else check on him that night?
MOTHER
(Changing the subject) When you were little, Maeva, he used to sneak into your crib when he had nightmares. Told me that you protected him from them.
(FATHER Scoffs)
MAEVA
He still has nightmares. He just stopped telling you about them.
(Lights dim.)
(Lights up on MAEVA sitting next to MAXWELL’s bed)
MAEVA
(softly singing) M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E
(MAXWELL stirs)
Do you remember when you dressed me up in your church clothes and told Mom I was your little brother—because you never really wanted a sister? Me too, Maxwell.
But then you came around to the idea, and I got to dress you up as anything I wanted. You were such a good sport back then. We had fun. Don’t you remember?
(MAXWELL rises, looks at her)
See, Max? I am here. I will always /
(Lights up on MOTHER and FATHER)
FATHER
(angry) / …always walking on eggshells every time that he gets quiet.
MOTHER
He is not trying to hurt us.
FATHER
He already has, dammit.
He quit the game, lashes out on you, hardly even talks to me, and he is failing every class that he’s in. Maeva tells us that his dreams are back, but I am convinced that this game is for attention. He knows if he’s quiet enough, if he just crumbles in the right places, you’ll bend. You’ll blame yourself. And I’m the villain again.
Someone has to say it: Maxwell wants attention, and he knows exactly how to get it. His school counselor said the same thing. What do you make of that?
(Lights up on the bed. MAXWELL thrashes.)
MOTHER
I make of it that a grown man would rather call my son manipulative than admit he’s in pain. And I make of it that you, his father, would rather protect your pride than protect your child.
(MAXWELL’s body arches, then crumples. The light on the bed flickers. A soft hum begins. Time shifts.)
FATHER
He didn’t want protection. If he did, he would have asked.
MOTHER
He asked us in every way he knew how. When he asked to quit baseball in the middle of the season, stopped hanging out with his friends and teammates, and when he didn’t even look at Maeva for nine days straight.
MAEVA
(beat. Lights up on the bedroom, MOTHER and FATHER exit.)
He wouldn’t look at me, but I noticed that in the darkness of his unconscious reality, monsters of vivid color overtook him, leaving him alone in his horror until he was released to wake up again.
(to MAXWELL) Maxy, please wake up.
You said they chased you? Every night, something different: one night a shadow, the next a voice that sounded almost like daddy’s after he’s been drinking. I know.
I tried to stay up with you. Would beg me not to fall asleep, but I always did. I’m sorry. I really tried, Maxwell, I did. Every night. I am so sorry.
(Silence, and then faint sounds.)
They always started the same, you said.
(MAXWELL stands, dreaming.)
The glove was too big for your hand, but it’s the only one mama could find at the Value Village.
(MOTHER enters)
She would slice oranges for the team and stuff juice pouches into a cooler for you and your teammates. You loved eating the oranges and stuffing the rind into your mouth to reveal a citrusy grin.
(FATHER enters)
Dad would carry the cooler– always making sure to open a juice box for me: unwrapping the yellow straw and piercing the pouch.
I would sip, and color, and listen to the sounds of the little league– eagerly waiting for you to look over at me and wave.
Will you look at me, Maxwell? Do you remember when I would wave to you? It was hot outside and Dad didn’t let me go and play with your teammates’ siblings, but I never complained and I would sit and look at you. Wait for you. All I ever wanted was to be there for you, Max.
(Beat)
You told me once that you didn’t even like baseball, but it was the only place where you saw Dad happy… proud of you. You told me that it was the only place where the four of us were together, but we’re all here now, Max. Mourning you. Missing you.
The monsters in your dream followed you into consciousness, didn’t they? Day-in and day-out– Growing louder with every slammed door, every sharp word, every empty bottle. None of us are okay, Maxwell. But no one asked the right questions. No one saw how much you were holding.
You didn’t need to carry that alone.
You used to come to me when you were scared, when you needed me. And now I’m here. I stayed. Everyone refuses to come into your bedroom, but I do. Your backpack sits in the kitchen, collecting dust like we’re waiting for you to need it again. And nobody touches it because they don’t dare to face the truth: that you were trying to leave long before you were gone.
I don’t know how to live in a world without you, Max. But I will try… and I’ll tell the truth. Even the parts that scare them.
And I will keep waving to you, Max, just like I did at your baseball games. Just wave back to me sometime. I still need you.
(MAEVA walks into the dining area and joins her parents. MAXWELL, unseen by Maeva, waves.)
ACT I
(Lights up on FATHER, MOTHER, and MAEVA seated at the dinner table, though they do not eat. There are four places set. MAXWELL remains on his bed. Time is unstable. Maxwell’s backpack is set on stage, untouched since his passing.)
FATHER
(Pushing his food around on his plate)
They say it’s supposed to snow this weekend.
MOTHER
Oh, that’s early for October.
FATHER
Whatdya say we rake before it sticks?
MOTHER
Sure, and I will bring the mums in before they freeze out there.
MAEVA
(gesturing to MAXWELL’s backpack)
Nobody wants to touch it, hm?(silence)
MOTHER
Go ahead, Maeva.
FATHER
Maeva, you—
MAEVA
It’s like if we leave it zipped, he’s still a boy running late, not one that left.
(She picks it up and carries it back to the table, placing it on the fourth chair. Beat.)
He asked us in every way he knew how.
MOTHER
I miss him.
FATHER
I do, too.
(MAEVA unzips the backpack, pulling out a notebook full of MAXWELL’s drawings and sketches. She chuckles.)
MOTHER
(reminiscent)His drawings.
FATHER
That one looks like the thing from Where the Wild Things Are.
MOTHER
(softly)He loved that book. I think we both had it memorized before he even turned four.
MAEVA
(Tracing a page)This one… I think it’s the one from the dream.
MOTHER
I think we should frame one. For his room. So when we open the door again, it’s not just silence waiting.
(Silence. A quiet shift. Acceptance is growing, but pain remains.)
MAEVA
When will this end?
MOTHER
Grief doesn’t end. It just… folds itself in. Becomes part of the room.
FATHER
Maybe tomorrow we can go through more of his backpack. Just a little at a time.
MOTHER
(To MAEVA) Why don’t you head to bed, sweetheart?
ACT I
(The lights dim on the dining table. MOTHER and FATHER exit. MAEVA remains seated for a moment, flipping through the drawings and fumbling with MAXWELL’s backpack. A soft shift in light draws attention to MAXWELL’s bed. He rises slowly and begins to make it: smoothing the blanket, fluffing the pillow, and folding a corner for MAEVA to crawl into.
MAEVA crosses to the bed and climbs in to sleep. MAXWELL steps back, watching. After a beat, MAXWELL turns and exits slowly into the shadows. Lights fade out at the dinner table, leaving only the bed illuminated.
MAEVA’s body stirs in bed.)
MAEVA
Maxwell?
(MAEVA jolts upright briefly, gasping, but then collapses back down. She is dreaming. The bed light flickers.)
No. Don’t make me go–. Please–
(screaming now, from inside the dream)
MAX!
(A final flicker. Blackout.)
END OF PLAY
About the Author
Kylie Mukai is a full-time student pursuing a MA in Theatre for Social and Civic Engagement at New York University. Mukai graduated from Gonzaga University in 2025, earning a BA in English, a minor in Comprehensive Leadership Studies, and a secondary teaching certification in English Language Arts and Theatre Arts.