The office was barely large enough for a desk.
I repaired the roof myself.
Fixed the lift.
Bought secondhand tools.
Then one Saturday, Rick and Noah painted the sign.
The first year nearly destroyed me.
Some weeks I had two customers.
Some weeks none.
I lived on peanut butter sandwiches.
There were nights I slept in the garage because heating my apartment cost too much.
But slowly, people started hearing about me.
The mechanic on Linden Avenue who wouldn’t sell you a transmission when you needed a twenty-dollar part.
The guy who let people pay in installments when money was tight.
By year two, I had a waiting list.
I hired Marcus, a nineteen-year-old kid who’d struggled in school but could hear an engine once and know what was wrong with it.
I bought another lift.
The shop started surviving.
I still didn’t have much money.
But I had the garage.
And I had Rick and Noah every other weekend.
And Wednesdays.
Laura knew those days were everything to me.
So she learned how to use them.
The first time, she called because she wanted me to pick up Brent’s dry cleaning before collecting the boys.
“No.”
“Then maybe the boys should stay home this weekend.”
I picked up the dry cleaning.
Another time, she expected me to leave work in the middle of the day to take Noah to the dentist because she had a tennis lesson.
I said I had three cars on lifts.
She reminded me how unfortunate it would be if the boys suddenly couldn’t visit.
I closed the shop for two hours.
It continued.
Fix something at the lake house.
Change her oil for free.
Take their dog to the veterinarian.
Lend her money.
And every time I resisted, she found a different way to say the same thing.
**It would be a shame if you didn’t see the boys.**
I asked my lawyer whether she could actually do that.
“Technically, no.”
Then came the qualification.
If she started claiming I had missed pickups, or the boys didn’t want to visit, or there were “concerns,” things could get complicated.
Brent had money for lawyers.
My attorney told me to keep my head down.
So I did.
For two years.
Then Laura brought me the Mercedes.
She arrived at the shop on a Saturday morning.
I was underneath a Ford Explorer when Marcus called me.
Laura stood in the open garage doorway wearing sunglasses and a white tennis skirt.
Behind her was a tow truck.
On it sat Brent’s black Mercedes.
The entire front end was destroyed.
Crushed hood.
Missing bumper.
Damaged headlight.
Bent front wheel.
Cracked windshield.
“What happened?”
“I hit a deer.”
I had repaired plenty of cars that hit deer.
That Mercedes hadn’t hit a deer.
She tossed the keys onto my desk.
“I need it Friday.”
I looked at the damage.
“Laura, this could take more than a week. I have customers already scheduled.”
“Cancel them.”
“I can’t. They need their cars.”
She removed her sunglasses.
“Rick and Noah are supposed to stay with you this weekend.”
My stomach tightened.
“It would be a shame if they couldn’t.”
I stared at her.
“You’d keep my children away from me over a car repair?”
She moved closer.
“Don’t make me prove it.”
Then I asked the obvious question.
“Why bring it here? Brent owns six dealerships. They all have body shops.”
Something changed in her expression.
Only for a moment.
“Because you’re cheap.”
Then she added that Brent didn’t want employees at his dealerships gossiping about his wife’s wreck.
“Friday. Five o’clock.”
The tow truck unloaded the Mercedes.
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