Chapter 10 - The Golden Engine
Six months later. November.
The golden afternoon light streamed through the large, egress windows of our new home's finished basement, casting warm rectangles across the polished concrete floor.
In the center of the room sat a magnificent, six-foot-by-eight-foot wooden train table, custom-built by a local carpenter using part of my promotion bonus.
Intricate miniature mountains crafted from plaster and pine moss rose from the surface, surrounded by tiny hand-painted trees, water towers, and a sprawling replica of a 1940s Midwestern rail yard.
A sleek, black steam locomotive—its brass fittings gleaming under the overhead track lights—glided smoothly around a wide, banked curve. The side rods moved in flawless, rhythmic harmony, clicking softly against the brass rails as a faint trail of scented vapor rose from its tiny smokestack.
Micah sat on a wooden stool beside the digital control box, his eyes bright with pure, focused joy, his thumb gently adjusting the speed dial.
"Look at the speed on the curve, Mom," he whispered, pointing with a small finger. "It doesn't slip at all now."
I sat on the bench beside him, holding a mug of warm cider, watching the tiny train complete its endless, perfect loop.
There were no shouting voices in this house. No sudden bursts of unpredictable rage. No subtle put-downs disguised as jokes. No demands for money, no guilt, and no gravy spilled on green Christmas sweaters.
My phone sat on the kitchen counter upstairs, silent and unbothered. My parents were living in their Grove City apartment; Ross was working his delivery job; and our lives had separated permanently into two different worlds.
I hadn't built a bridge back to them, because a bridge to a toxic shoreline only invites the fire back across. Instead, I had built a fortress around the life that truly mattered.
Micah turned the speed dial down slightly, bringing the locomotive to a smooth, whispering stop right in front of our bench. He reached out, his small fingers carefully touching the polished brass engine.
"Mom?" he asked softly, looking up at me.
"Yes, sweetie?"
"This is the best house we've ever had."
May you like
I reached out, wrapping my arm around his shoulders, pulling him close against my side, smelling the sweet, clean scent of fresh pine and autumn air in his hair.
"It is, Micah," I whispered, kissing his forehead as the afternoon sun filled the room with gold. "And it's ours. Forever."
