Chapter 10 - Level Ground
That evening, after the cameras had gone home and the crowds had dispersed, I walked back out onto the pedestrian walkway of the Camden River Bridge alone.
The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long, golden geometric shadows across the suspension cables and the rushing water far below. The wind was cool and steady, but the bridge didn't sway; it held fast, anchored deep into bedrock.
I reached into the pocket of my coat and pulled out Grandpa Walter’s brass level.
I crouched down near one of the expansion joints, placing the small tool flat against the reinforced concrete decking.
The bubble rested dead center, locked immovably between the two black marker lines.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out to find a simple text message from an unfamiliar local number, though I knew the handwriting style instantly:
“We’re having Sunday dinner this week. No metal folding chairs, I promise. Hope you can make it, Tami.”
It was from Dad.
May you like
I smiled, slipping the brass level back into my pocket alongside my keys. I looked out over the sprawling city skyline, feeling the solid, level ground beneath my feet. I had spent years trying to prove my worth to a family that refused to look past their own biases. But standing there on a bridge I had engineered from the ground up, I realized I didn't need their approval anymore.
I had built my own foundation. And it was level.
