Two years have passed since my mom’s divorce, and now, at 17, I find myself standing on the brink of another change. Life has not been easy, but my mother’s strength has carried us through the darkest of times. She has fought every battle with quiet resilience, shouldering the weight of single parenthood while ensuring that my brother and I had a future worth fighting for.

  For the past two years, we have lived in a cramped flat—a space so small that every movement felt shared, every whispered conversation echoing off the thin walls. The room we all slept in barely fit a single bed and a mattress on the floor, the kitchen was just big enough for a tiny stove and a small wooden table where we ate our meals together, and the bathroom was so narrow that we had to squeeze past each other just to get in. But despite the lack of space, it was a home—our safe haven from the past.

  Mom worked tirelessly, holding down a job as a cashier at a dimly lit convenience store, where the scent of coffee and newsprint clung to her clothes long after her shifts. She would come home late, exhausted but determined, setting aside time to help my brother and me with our schoolwork before retreating to her books, studying late into the night for the teaching position she so desperately sought. Even as fatigue lined her face, she never once complained. She simply pressed on, sacrificing sleep, comfort, and even her own dreams to give us a better life.

  Now, her perseverance has paid off. She has secured a job as an art teacher at Westfield Academy, a prestigious school in Riverton. It is the opportunity she has worked so hard for—the chance to finally step into a career she loves, where she can trade the monotony of counting change behind a register for the vibrancy of colours and creativity in a classroom. To make things even better, she has decided to move us to Greenfield, a quiet town nestled atop a rolling green hill, where the air is fresher and the streets are lined with charming houses and tall, swaying trees. It’s a place that feels like a new beginning, a far cry from the tiny flat we have called home for the past two years.

  With her new job comes another big change—my brother and I will be transferring to Westfield Academy. The thought of starting over in a new school fills me with both excitement and apprehension, but deep down, I know this is what we need. We have lived in survival mode for so long that the idea of stability, of a fresh start, almost feels foreign.

  As I look at my mother, standing a little taller now, her tired eyes shining with a newfound hope, I realize just how much she has given for us. This isn’t just a move—it’s a victory. A step toward the life she has always dreamed of for us. And for the first time in a long while, the future doesn’t seem so uncertain. It seems full of promise.

  Mom finally bought the tickets for our journey to Westfield, and from there, we will take the metro to Greenfield. The departure is set for tomorrow, and the air in our tiny flat is thick with anticipation. It still feels surreal—after years of struggle, we are finally leaving the past behind. While Mom carefully folds our clothes into worn suitcases, Justin bounces around the room,

  pleading to bring his favourite toys and a well-worn soccer ball. His excitement is infectious, a rare sight after everything we’ve been through.

  Meanwhile, I sit by the window, gazing out at the city skyline, my mind drifting to images of Greenfield—the lush hills, the misty mornings, the gentle rhythm of rain tapping against rooftops. I’ve seen pictures online, but something tells me that no photograph could capture the feeling of truly being there. To me, Greenfield represents more than just a town—it is the promise of peace, of a future untouched by the ghosts of our past.

  For so long, we lived under the weight of chaos, tiptoeing around my father’s drunken moods, his sharp words and cold indifference cutting deeper than any wound. But now, all of that is behind us. We are stepping into a new life, one shaped not by fear, but by hope.

  Mom calls my name, pulling me from my thoughts. She hands me a folder filled with important documents—our birth certificates, school records, and enrollment forms for Westfield Academy. I clutch it tightly, understanding the significance of what it holds. This isn’t just paperwork. It is proof of everything Mom has fought for, every sacrifice she has made. And as I take one last look around our cramped apartment, I know—tomorrow, we are not just leaving.

  We are finally starting over.

  The rhythmic hum of the train lulls us into a strange kind of peace as we journey toward Westfield. The world outside the window rushes past in a blur of deep blues and silvers, the moonlight casting a soft glow over the open fields and distant clusters of trees. We are halfway there—just six more hours until we arrive.

  Justin sleeps soundly beside Mom, his small frame curled against her side, his chest rising and falling in steady breaths. Mom, ever the insomniac, is engrossed in a thick book about Napoleon, her tired eyes scanning the pages with quiet focus. Despite the exhaustion lining her face, there is something softer about her now—something lighter, as if she is finally breathing freely after years of suffocating under the weight of the past.

  I turn back to the window, my fingers pressed against the cool glass. The fireflies outside flicker in mesmerising patterns, their golden lights forming looping, J-shaped trails in the darkness. A childlike excitement sparks in my chest, and I nudge Justin gently, eager to share the moment with him. He stirs but doesn’t react, too lost in the depths of his dreams.

  Not willing to give up so easily, I slip my hand beneath his chin and tickle him lightly. At first, he grumbles, swatting lazily at my fingers. But then, as I persist, a sleepy giggle escapes him. I grin, tickling him again until his laughter grows, breaking the stillness of the train car. In an instant, he’s wide awake, his mischievous streak kicking in as he retaliates, his small hands darting toward my ribs.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  We dissolve into quiet fits of laughter, trying not to disturb the other passengers. Our giggles fill the space between us, mingling with the steady clatter of the train against the tracks. Mom, still absorbed in her phone, casts us a weary glance over the rim of her glasses. “You two need to sleep,” she murmurs, her voice carrying both affection and exhaustion. “We’ll be at Westfield by seven.”

  Still breathless from our playful battle, we exchange a final grin before settling back into our seats. The excitement slowly fades into a comfortable drowsiness, the warmth of our shared moment lingering like an ember in the dark.

  The train rocks gently, the fireflies continue their silent dance outside, and as our eyes grow heavy, Justin and I drift into sleep—our dreams carrying us toward the life that awaits in Greenfield.

  A gentle thud jolted me awake. Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I turned to see Mom gathering our luggage, her movements swift yet careful. The dim glow of the train’s overhead lights flickered slightly, casting long shadows as the train slowed.

  “We’ll be at Westfield in five minutes,” she said softly. “Collect everything and wake Justin.”

  I stretched my arms before scanning the small space around me. Justin and I had managed to scatter our belongings during the journey—books, wrappers from the snacks Mom had packed, and a half-empty bottle of water. One by one, I gathered them up, stuffing everything into my bag.

  Then, I turned my attention to Justin. He was curled up against the seat, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. I placed a hand on his shoulder and shook him gently. His eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep.

  “Have we arrived?” he mumbled, his voice thick with drowsiness.

  “Almost,” I replied. “We’re at the Westfield Central platform.”

  Taking his small hand in mine, I led him out of our compartment, following Mom as she stepped onto the platform. A gust of cool morning air greeted us, tinged with the scent of fresh rain and steel. The faint hum of conversation surrounded us, mixed with the occasional hiss of steam escaping from the train’s undercarriage. High above us, a clock hung on the station’s arched ceiling, its golden hands pointing to 7:30.

  We navigated through the crowd, moving toward the exit. Outside, the world of Westfield stretched before us, a blend of old charm and modern bustle. We hailed a taxi, and as it pulled up, Mom ushered us inside, giving the driver the address for Westfield Academy. As the car rumbled to life, I stared out the window, watching as the streets rolled past.

  Excitement and nervousness churned inside me. A new beginning—a new school, new classmates. I imagined walking through unfamiliar hallways, faces turning to look at the new girl. Would they be friendly? Would they judge me? I gripped my backpack a little tighter.

  The taxi soon pulled up in front of Westfield Academy. As I stepped out, my breath caught. The building loomed before us, grand and imposing, its walls covered in murals of historical figures and scientific discoveries. Sunlight glinted off its high glass windows, making it look almost magical.

  While I stood admiring the school, a soft sound caught my ear—Mom’s laughter. I turned and saw her beaming, a rare sight. There was something different about her, a lightness I hadn’t seen in a long time. This really was a new beginning.

  Hand in hand, Justin and I followed her toward the reception area. Inside, students crowded around a large whiteboard, engrossed in solving a math equation. Their expressions were intense, fingers moving frantically as they worked through numbers. I swallowed. Was this what we were stepping into? A place where everyone was always competing?

  Mom spoke briefly with the receptionist before turning to us. “A teacher will be here soon to ask you some questions,” she said. “And I need to submit some important documents for my new job here as an art teacher.”

  The receptionist's eyes widened in recognition. “Oh! Mrs. William, I remember you. You passed the exam for the art teacher position here at Westfield Academy. Congratulations!”

  Mom’s smile grew even wider. “Thank you,” she said warmly. “I’m excited to start.”

  Hearing this filled me with pride. Mom had worked so hard for this, and now it was finally happening.

  My stomach twisted. A test? Now? I hadn’t prepared for this. My mind raced through the subjects I had studied, trying to recall anything useful.

  Mom must have sensed my panic because she placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Relax,” she said gently. “You know more than you think.”

  I took a deep breath, nodding. She was right. I just had to stay calm.

  Moments later, a tall man with neatly combed hair and sharp eyes approached us. He introduced himself as Mr. Hayes before turning to Justin.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  Justin’s voice trembled slightly, but he answered, “Justin William.”

  Mr. Hayes nodded. “Can you tell me what a prime number is?”

  Justin hesitated, his small hands balled into fists. “A-A number that is only divisible by 1 and itself is called a prime number.”

  I could see the nervous energy vibrating through him, but he pushed forward. When asked about verbs, he answered, “A word that describes an action, state, or occurrence.” Then came a history question. “When did the Second World War end?”

  His face brightened. “1945.”

  Mr. Hayes gave a small approving nod before turning to me. “And your name?”

  “Emily,” I answered, standing as straight as I could.

  “Tell me, what is congruence?”

  My mind clicked into place, recalling a lesson from seventh grade. “When two figures have the same shape and size, they are congruent.”

  He studied me for a moment before asking, “Which country did Hitler invade first?”

  A flicker of doubt crept in. I had read about this before, but was I remembering correctly? Taking a chance, I answered, “Poland?”

  His lips quirked slightly. “Correct.”

  Relief flooded me, but it was short-lived as he added, “Don’t be too glad. Tomorrow, you’ll both take a written test.”

  A test. Already.

  I glanced at Justin, who looked just as anxious as I felt, but I took a deep breath. This was our new beginning, and we would face whatever came next—together.

  We took the metro to Greenfield, and as we arrived, a crisp freshness filled the air, carrying the earthy scent of recent rain. The platform was quieter than the bustling city we had left behind, with only a few scattered passengers stepping off alongside us. Beyond the station, the landscape stretched out in rolling waves of green, a stark contrast to the concrete maze we were used to.

  A small, weathered taxi waited for us at the curb, its engine purring softly as we climbed inside. The ride was smooth, winding along narrow roads flanked by towering trees and wildflowers swaying in the breeze. From our vantage point on the hill, I could see a scattering of houses, their rooftops peeking through the thick foliage. A modest church stood among them, its steeple pointing toward the sky, as if in quiet reverence to the looming clouds that hung heavy with the promise of rain.

  Mom’s voice was filled with quiet excitement as she pointed to a house perched near the edge of the hill. "This is our home," she said.