Chapter 4 - CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE MARKET
The next morning, Christmas Eve arrived with a crisp, bright winter sun reflecting off the fresh blanket of snow that had fallen overnight.
When Micah woke up, he didn't mention his grandmother or the dining room. He sat on the edge of the hotel bed, kicking his legs, staring out the window at the snow-covered parking lot.
"Mom?" he asked as I packed our small bag. "Are we going back home today?"
"We are," I said, kneeling in front of him and pulling his boots on. "But before we go back to our apartment, I was thinking we could drive up to the German Christmas Market in historic Belleville. It's about forty minutes away. What do you think?"
His eyes lit up. "Can we get kettle corn?"
"We can get kettle corn, warm apple cider, and whatever else you want," I promised, pressing a kiss to his nose.
We checked out of the hotel at 10:00 AM. I intentionally took the scenic backroads, avoiding the highway that led past my parents' suburb. My phone, still muted, vibrated periodically in the cup holder. I could see the notification icons stacking up—more missed calls, more text alerts—but I refused to tap the screen. Today belonged to Micah.
The Belleville Christmas Market was packed with families wrapped in heavy scarves, moving between rows of wooden stalls decorated with pine garlands and twinkling fairy lights. The air smelled of roasted nuts, cinnamon, and woodsmoke from open iron braziers.
We walked hand in hand through the snow-dusted aisles. Micah carried a small bag of warm kettle corn, munching happily while pointing out handmade glass ornaments and carved wooden nutcrackers. For two hours, the horror of the previous night seemed a million miles away.
Near the center of the market, Micah stopped dead in his tracks outside a small stall run by an elderly craftsman wearing a wool cap. The stall was filled with intricate, hand-carved wooden toys—trains, cars, clockwork towers, and music boxes.
Micah stepped closer, his eyes fixed on a small, dark walnut steam engine car with tiny brass wheels that actually turned. He didn't ask me to buy it. He just stood there, picking it up with extreme care, turning it over in his small hands, testing the smooth motion of the wooden wheels against his palm.
I watched him quietly. I knew what he was doing. He was testing the waters. He was trying to figure out if our world had completely shattered, or if we were still allowed to have nice things, good memories, and quiet joy.
"Do you like that one, Micah?" I asked softly, stepping beside him.
He looked up at me, his eyes wide with a mix of hope and hesitation. "It's really well balanced, Mom. Look at the axle joints. They didn't use glue; they used tiny wooden pegs."
"Excuse me," I said to the craftsman behind the counter. "How much for the train car?"
"Fifteen dollars, miss," the old man smiled warmly.
I pulled out my wallet, handed the man a twenty-dollar bill, and told him to keep the change. The craftsman wrapped the wooden train car in soft red tissue paper and handed it directly to Micah.
Micah held the small package against his chest as if it were made of solid gold. "Thanks, Mom," he whispered, burying his face in my coat. "You're the best."
We spent the rest of the afternoon driving home through the snow. Micah sat in the back seat, holding his wooden train car against the glass window, pretending it was riding along the telephone wires that stretched beside the highway. Every few miles, he would explain a new technical detail about how the wooden wheels moved.
"Mom?" he asked quietly as we approached our apartment complex.
"Yes, baby?"
"Is the brass train I brought to Grandma's house broken?"
I looked at him through the rearview mirror. "No, Micah. It was safe in its box the whole time. It's sitting on your desk right now, completely clean."
He let out a contented sigh and rested his head against the headrest. "Good. That's good."
We arrived at our quiet, warm apartment at 4:30 PM. The living room was cozy, decorated with our small artificial Christmas tree and the handmade stocking Micah had crafted in school. I carried our bags inside, turned on the tree lights, and made two mugs of hot chocolate with mini marshmallows.
I sat on the sofa with my mug, watching Micah sit on the rug near the Christmas tree, carefully aligning his new wooden train car with the brass steam engine he had brought back from my parents' house.
Only then did I pick up my phone from the kitchen counter and unmute the screen.
May you like
There were fourteen missed calls. Nine text messages from my mother, four from Ross, and one from my father.
I didn't open a single text. Instead, I laid the phone face down on the counter, walked back to the rug, and sat down beside my son to help him lay out his wooden track.
