Son's train station master routine

The winter holidays had settled over the house like a cozy blanket. In the kitchen, the scent of gingerbread and pine still lingered as a mother, let’s call her Eleanor, washed the last of the Christmas china. Her son, young Thomas, had been enraptured by his gift from Santa: a magnificent, detailed electric train set now laid out in an elaborate circuit across the living room rug.

From the kitchen, Eleanor listened with a smile to the low hum of the engine and the gentle *click-clack* of wheels on plastic rails. It was a peaceful, domestic symphony—until it wasn’t. The train hissed to a stop. Then, Thomas’s voice, small but startlingly forceful, pierced the air:

"All you sons of bitches who want to get off, get the hell off now, because this is the last stop! All of you sons of bitches that are getting on, get your asses in the train 'cause we're leaving!"

The teacup in Eleanor’s hand froze mid-scrub. Her eyes widened. *Where on earth…?* Then she remembered. The previous week, desperate for a moment’s peace, she’d let Thomas watch an old, gritty police drama with his father. A scene in a gritty train station, it seemed, had made quite the impression.

Setting the cup down with a decisive clink, she marched...