The Trolleys and the Breaking Point

“There’s nothing quite like watching your food storage arrive by inter-dimensional trolley to make you question every life choice that’s led to this moment.”

Watching the surreal scene unfold before me, I couldn't help but feel a growing sense of unease, a nagging doubt that gnawed at the edges of my mind like a persistent itch. The sight of Luke filling up shopping trolleys with our carefully curated food storage, only to wheel them through a swirling vortex of colour and light, seemed like something out of a fever dream. A twisted vision born of my deepest fears and anxieties.

It was a spectacle that defied logic, and yet here we were—trapped in the midst of it, bearing witness to something so fantastical it might well have been plucked from the pages of a science fiction novel. And yet, the details were painfully real. The dull metallic rattle of trolley wheels over dusty earth. The endless tins of baked beans and corn kernels. Real.

I stood there, my hands twisting nervously in the folds of my clothes, the fabric bunching beneath my fingers in a futile attempt to ground myself. The minutes ticked by with agonising slowness. Each trolley that emerged through the Portal felt like a piece of our old life—our old world—slowly returning to us again.

And yet it triggered not relief, but a sense of loss I felt keenly. A dull ache that settled in the pit of my stomach and refused to be soothed. Each familiar item was a reminder of what we had left behind. The comfort of routine. The certainty of purpose. The sacred rhythm of a life built on faith and discipline.

Now, all of it was being hauled across realities in rickety trolleys under an ancient sun, and I couldn't help but wonder—were we preserving something meaningful? Or simply clinging to echoes of a past that no longer existed?

But even as I grappled with my own inner turmoil, I couldn't help but be impressed by Paul's apparent ease and efficiency. He moved through the work with a sense of purpose and determination, his project management skills shining through as he directed and organised the ragtag group of settlers that had become our new community.

There was a quiet authority to him now, a groundedness that lent him weight beyond his years. I watched as he gestured with calm confidence, giving instructions, solving problems, offering reassurance where needed. It was a side of him I rarely got to see—a glimpse of the capable and confident man he had become, despite the challenges and setbacks that had plagued his personal life.

A pang of regret twisted in my chest as I observed him. Regret for all the missed conversations, the unspoken worries, the loving corrections that had never been given. We had drifted, slowly and imperceptibly at first, then all at once—life pulling us in different directions like currents under the surface.

With Paul living in Broken Hill with Claire and their two children, Mack and Rose, our visits had become few and far between. Stolen moments of warmth and laughter, always cut short by the obligations that piled endlessly on our shoulders—church callings, Relief Society commitments, community service.

It had always felt like the right thing at the time—serving the Lord, putting faith first—but now, standing in the dust of a foreign world, I wondered what we had sacrificed in the name of that obedience. How many moments with Paul had slipped through our fingers while we were so busy doing what we believed was right?

Suddenly, Jerome's voice cut through my musings, snapping me back to the present with a jolt. “Dad,” he called out, his tone laced with a sense of urgency that set my nerves on edge.

I looked up at once, my gaze locking with Noah's in a silent exchange—a question, a plea for reassurance, for strength, for something to anchor me amidst the rising tide of uncertainty. But before he could respond, I was already moving, drawn forward by the electricity in Jerome’s voice, the bright flicker of something—hope, maybe—lighting his eyes.

“What is it?” I asked quickly, the words tumbling from my lips before I could contain them. “Is it Charles? Is he ready to come through the Portal?”

Just saying it aloud made my stomach twist. The words felt unnatural, foreign, like they belonged to someone else's story. Portal. A doorway to another world. Only hours ago, such things had belonged to the realm of fantasy, children’s bedtime tales and science fiction. Yet here we were, speaking of them as casually as one might discuss the weather.

The absurdity of it all pressed in around me. But even through the fog of disbelief, I could feel that fragile spark of hope flickering inside my chest. The chance to see Charles again, to begin the gathering of our family under one roof—however makeshift, however strange—was almost too much to hope for. And yet, I clung to it with all the strength I had left.

Charles. My youngest boy. The one with the crooked smile and boundless energy, the one who could coax a laugh from me even when the weight of the world pressed down on my shoulders. He was more than just another member of our family. He was joy. He was light. He was the piece of the puzzle that would help make this daunting world feel, if not like home, then at least survivable.

Jerome's response, when it came, struck me like a bucket of cold water to the face—a jarring reminder of the maddening new reality we now occupied. “Not yet,” he told me, his voice tinged with a hint of impatience, as though he could sense the storm of frustration and disappointment rising steadily within me.

I let out a loud huff, the sound escaping before I could temper it. My lips twisted into a pout, my arms folding stiffly across my chest in an unconscious act of self-defence. I was trying—truly trying—to hold onto some shred of composure, to maintain the dignity and grace I had always believed were the marks of a strong matriarch. But inside, I could feel my heart sink like a stone, dragging me deeper into the mire of despair.

Jerome, perhaps sensing the fragile edge of my mood, turned his attention to Noah instead. His tone brightened, laced now with a spark of excitement that only served to heighten my unease.

“Luke and Charles are going to bring through those large barrels of wheat and rice that are in the garage,” he explained, his eyes gleaming with that mischievous glint I recognised all too well. The kind that usually preceded a poorly thought-out plan.

I watched as Noah’s brow lifted in alarm, the furrow of concern deepening with each word. I didn’t need to hear his thoughts aloud—we were in complete sync. He was thinking what I was thinking: those barrels were enormous. Even with adult strength, they were unwieldy and heavy. The idea of Charles and Luke, of all people, attempting to heave them through a swirling Portal in tandem was almost laughable—if it weren’t so alarming.

“Do they really have to do this now?” I asked, the words escaping in a tight rush, my voice strained with fear and bubbling frustration. “Can't Charles just come here already?”

I heard it in my own tone—that petulant note, the childlike whine that surfaced whenever I felt cornered, helpless, overwhelmed. I loathed that sound in myself. But today... today I simply didn’t have the strength to pretend. The thought of Charles struggling with one of those monstrous barrels, Luke egging him on with his usual reckless bravado, was too much to bear. It clenched something deep in my chest—tight and unforgiving—and I was no longer certain whether it was fear, fury, or simply the slow, aching grief of a mother longing for her child.

Noah glanced at Jerome, then back at me, his face an unreadable mask. I could see the cogs turning behind his calm exterior, his mind working to find some middle ground, some way to soothe the rising storm in my chest before it broke loose.

“Why don't you go back to the camp and I'll bring Charles as soon as he arrives,” he suggested gently, his voice low and coaxing, as though I were a frightened creature liable to bolt at the slightest provocation.

My hands twitched restlessly at my sides before rising to my chest, fingers knotting and unknotting in a restless, frantic rhythm. It was a visible sign of the anxiety churning within me, a helpless attempt to work through the panic with motion. The very idea of turning back, of leaving this place where my child might appear at any moment, struck at something primal in me. The thought felt like a betrayal—of my duty, of my instincts, of my love. What sort of mother would I be to simply walk away?

“It's probably the best thing to do,” Jerome added, his tone light with forced cheer, laced with that infuriating note of reasonableness that made my skin crawl. “There's not really much you can do here besides wait.”

That did it.

A hot, stinging flush bloomed at the base of my neck and surged upwards, flooding my face with fury and shame. How dare they? How dare they speak of me as if I were merely an inconvenience, a woman in the way? As if my presence here—my vigilance, my desperation—was somehow a nuisance rather than an expression of love?

“And what am I supposed to do at the camp?” I snapped.

My voice was sharp, cracking like a whip, cutting into the stillness and sending a flock of startled birds fluttering into the sky—if only in my imagination.

Noah’s eyes flicked to mine, and in them I saw something I hadn’t expected: helplessness. He shrugged faintly, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. His expression was a mirror of quiet defeat, the look of a man who wanted to fix things but had long since run out of tools.

And in that moment, something in me softened, just a little. But the storm hadn’t passed—not yet.

“What about that lanky Karen woman?” Jerome suggested, his voice lilting with mock innocence, clearly attempting to jolt me from my sour mood with a bit of teasing. “I'm sure she'll have something that you can help with.”

My lips curled involuntarily into a pout, the expression both petulant and instinctive, as though I had regressed into a younger version of myself—one that felt dismissed, sidelined. The very idea of spending time with Karen, with her odd mannerisms and unpredictable energy, sent a shiver of unease down my spine. There was something about her I couldn't trust, couldn't connect with. I didn’t belong in her world, nor she in mine.

“I don't know where the camp is,” I mumbled, the words escaping in a sullen rush. I sounded like a child who’d had her favourite toy taken away—whiny, withdrawn, and thoroughly unhelpful.

Noah’s patience, ever finite, finally showed a crack. He raised his hand and gestured off towards the horizon, his voice taut with frustration. “It's just over the few small hills,” he said, his tone sharp and clipped, like a teacher explaining the obvious to a wilfully obtuse pupil.

Another pout formed unbidden, my lower lip trembling slightly, not from tears but from a deep need to be seen—understood. I wasn’t just being difficult. I was lost. Overwhelmed. And yes, frightened.

Noah released a long, exhausted breath, his chest visibly deflating as the air escaped him. His shoulders drooped. “I'll come with you,” he said at last, his voice low and heavy with resignation, like a man accepting a burden he knew he could never set down.

I caught the glance he tossed sideways at Jerome—quick, pointed, and full of meaning. Something unspoken passed between them, and it stung more than I cared to admit. That flicker of resentment, hot and sharp, flared within me. For a moment, I wasn’t sure if it was aimed more at them… or at myself.

Was I really so much trouble? So difficult to manage that I had to be escorted away like a liability?

I turned my face to the ground, unwilling to let them see the shame that pooled in my eyes, the betrayal I felt—not from them, but from the storm of my own emotions.

“Don't be too long, Dad,” Jerome called out as he began to walk away, his voice laced with a hint of concern that made my heart ache. “I could really use your help here with those barrels when they arrive.”

“No problem,” Noah replied, his voice tight and strained, as though the effort of keeping his tone even was costing him dearly. I could hear it—the weight he carried, the frustration barely tethered beneath his calm exterior. It struck me then, sharply, how much I had come to rely on his steadiness, and how much strain my own spiralling emotions had added to his burden.

Then he turned to me. His eyes searched mine—earnest, imploring—for some sign that I still saw him, still recognised the man who had always stood at my side, through births and deaths, joy and sorrow. “Come on, Greta,” he said softly, his hand reaching out to take mine. There was no accusation in the gesture, no demand. Just comfort. Just love.

“Let's go back to the camp and wait for Charles there.”

I hesitated, my hand hovering uncertainly in the air between us. My mind reeled, a storm of anxieties whirling louder with every heartbeat. What if something went wrong? What if Charles never came? What if—?

But in the end, I knew. He was right. There was nothing for me to do here—no task I could take on, no problem I could solve—only the empty ache of waiting, and the quiet torment of helplessness. My presence here only frayed tempers and deepened divides.

So I took his hand.

With reluctant steps and a heart like lead, I allowed him to lead me away. The sand shifted beneath my feet, dragging at my heels like the weight of everything I carried. Each footfall felt like a small surrender, a reluctant admission that I couldn't control this, couldn't fix it. I hated that feeling.

The hills loomed ahead, low and featureless, but their rise marked the invisible line between the here and the before.

And still, unease stalked me.

I couldn't shake it—that gnawing sensation in my gut, that cold whisper beneath the surface that something wasn't right. That we were being led further into the unknown by forces we barely understood. That the very fabric of our family, of everything we believed in, was unravelling.

My fingers tightened around Noah’s, clinging to him like an anchor in a world gone adrift. And as the wind picked up, stirring the dust around our feet, I tilted my face skyward and whispered a silent prayer. Not the kind spoken aloud in a chapel, not the kind led by priesthood authority—but the trembling, private kind of prayer a mother whispers when her soul feels too full.

A prayer for guidance.

A prayer for Charles.

A prayer that this mad new world would not swallow us whole.