My son and I were sitting on the couch one quiet afternoon, scrolling through Facebook in search of silly animal videos, when an advertisement for The Polar Express in Williams, Arizona appeared on the screen. Ty gasped and quickly snatched my phone from my hands. I smirked as I watched him—so grown up in that moment—studying the screen with a serious expression. Then he turned to me, eyes shining, and pointed excitedly at the video.
I held out my hand for my phone, and Ty leaned in, resting his head against my shoulder. Together, we watched the advertisement again…and again. Finally, I asked, “Would you like to ride The Polar Express?”
Ty sat straight up, squealed with delight, and nodded enthusiastically. I smiled, watching him rock back and forth in excitement. I knew that when he stimmed like that, it meant he truly wanted something. I held my arm out and said, “Then come back over here and let’s look at the website.”
Ty hurried back to my side as I typed in the Grand Canyon Railway website. The moment it loaded, he pointed at the train. “Yes! I see the train!” I laughed. We explored every inch of the site, watched every video, and stayed glued to the screen until my phone finally died. I told Ty we’d have to ask daddy when he got home. Ty nodded and ran upstairs, returning moments later with every train-related item he owned. He happily played on the floor, waiting for daddy to arrive.
When the garage door opened, Ty’s face lit up. He pointed excitedly, and I laughed, nodding. “Go get him!” Ty ran to Lloyd, who hugged him tightly. “Well hello to you too, buddy!” Ty grabbed his hand and dragged him into the living room, even helping by taking his lunchbox to the kitchen so daddy wouldn’t “waste time.”
Lloyd sat beside me and smirked. “So…what’s going on?” I explained everything, while Ty patiently waited. Lloyd pulled up the website on his phone, and Ty snuggled into his side. When the train appeared on the screen, Ty squealed and bounced, signing yes over and over again. Lloyd looked at me and smiled. “I guess we can go.” Ty launched himself into his father’s arms, hugging him so tightly Lloyd laughed and begged for mercy.
In the weeks that followed, Ty marked off each day on his calendar. He lived and breathed trains. The day before the trip, he burst off the school van, hugging everyone in sight. At home, he insisted on watching The Polar Express on repeat. That night, he barely ate, cleaned up dinner himself, kissed us both, and put himself to bed.
My husband and I stood there stunned. “Guess he’s excited?” I laughed. That night, we stayed up talking, imagining Ty’s joy—singing, drinking hot chocolate, meeting Santa.
The next morning, Ty waited patiently in his room for us to wake. He bounced with excitement when we opened his door. After loading the car and helping Luna, Ty’s service dog, we made one stop to get Luna groomed. Ty struggled with the wait, hitting bags of dog food in frustration. I gave him the mom look and reminded him gently—but firmly—that we needed calm hands.
We walked him to a quiet space and practiced deep breaths. “I know you want to go now,” I whispered. “But we have to wait.” Eventually, Ty nodded. When Luna was finished, we rushed out, and Ty buckled himself in, making sure Luna was secure too. “Polar Express, here we come!”
The four-hour drive passed peacefully. Ty stared out the window, calm and patient. When we finally spotted the train engine at the hotel, Ty bounced with excitement. He waited patiently until we gave permission to unbuckle, then bolted for the door.
Our room faced the railway. Ty glued himself to the window, waiting. When it was finally time, he surprised us by willingly taking a bath and putting on his pajamas. I dressed Luna to match and snapped a quick photo. Then we headed to dinner.
The restaurant was filled with trains and lights. Suddenly, Ty grew quiet. When we suggested eating, he dropped to the floor. At first, I thought he was refusing—but when he screamed and Luna rushed to him, we realized he was overwhelmed. I sat with him, speaking softly, while Luna worked her calming magic.
I spotted a small rock-digging display and guided Ty there. The cool stones helped ground him. He picked a few to keep, and with that comfort in his pocket, he nodded yes to dinner. A kind waitress led us to a quiet table and whispered, “I have a child on the spectrum too.” My anxiety melted instantly.
Later, Lloyd leaned over. “They rerouted people around us when Ty melted down.” I nearly dropped my fork. For once, we weren’t judged—we were helped.
After dinner, we explored the platform early. When the train arrived with a loud hiss, Ty covered his ears and dropped to the ground. The meltdown came fast and fierce. Luna tried to help but was pushed away. I had Lloyd take her to safety and positioned myself behind Ty to protect him.
People stared. I sang softly, held my head high, and inched him forward despite the pain. A woman approached and offered help, sharing that her son was autistic too. Her kindness gave me strength.
Through humor and play—turning a tossed slipper into a silly game—I finally saw Ty smile again. He gathered himself and ran toward the train…only to be stopped by a line of children.
That was too much.
Ty collapsed, sobbing. I joined him on the ground, my heart breaking. Staff knelt beside us. Someone suggested a lift. Others reassured us to take our time. We tried—but Ty couldn’t tolerate it. When he kicked me hard enough to lift me off the ground, Luna leapt to protect me. I landed safely, hugged my son tightly, and knew.
I whispered, “Do you want to go bye-bye?” Ty nodded yes.
We walked away. I cried silently, watching families board the train. Dreams burned away in my chest. Back at the room, lupus hit hard. I broke down in the bathroom, feeling like a failure.
Then came a knock.
The man who helped with the lift—and a police officer—stood outside. “We want to do something special for your family.” I sobbed and hugged them.
Later, as I distracted Ty with a picture of train wheels on the wall, I reenacted the ride. We read The Polar Express together, tears streaming down my face.
Then my husband said, “Someone special wants to meet you.”
The conductor walked in.
He spoke gently to Ty, told him everyone has hard days, and gave him a golden pocket watch. Ty stared in awe. I cried tears of joy.
Later, the conductor returned with a bell from Santa—and arranged a refund.
That night, Ty fell asleep clutching his watch and bell. For the first time, we felt accepted.
Driving home, the cruel voices in my head faded, replaced by kind ones:
“You aren’t alone.”
“He did nothing wrong.”
Maybe—just maybe—the world could accept my son.
I looked back at Ty showing Luna his watch and smiled, knowing kindness still exists, and believing that one day, my son will be welcomed exactly as he is.
