Chapter 14 - THE WINDSHIELD
Three years later, I sold the car.
Same car.
Same windshield, technically, because the replacement had lasted.
The dealership offered less than I wanted.
Of course.
I almost walked.
Then Caleb—five and a half—pressed both hands to the glass and said:
“Is this the one I broke?”
I looked at him.
“You remember that?”
“Dad told me.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“What did Dad say?”
“That I threw a thing and Mommy got mad.”
That was all.
I relaxed.
“Yes. You broke it.”
“Was it expensive?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry.”
I smiled.
“You were two.”
“Still.”
He looked genuinely guilty.
I crouched.
“Hey.”
He looked at me.
“Kids break things. Grown-ups fix them.”
He thought about that.
“Did you fix it?”
“Yes.”
Technically insurance and a payment plan did.
Close enough.
Then he asked:
“Did Dad fix it too?”
I hesitated.
Children eventually ask questions adults wish they could keep abstract.
“Dad had some things he needed to learn then.”
“Did he learn them?”
“I think he’s still learning.”
Caleb accepted that and returned to inspecting the tires.
I traded the car for a used crossover.
Not new.
Not luxurious.
Reliable.
I paid a substantial down payment myself.
Financed the rest at a reasonable rate.
Sarah joked:
“Need another loan?”
I pointed at her.
“Careful.”
She laughed.
We could laugh now.
That evening Leo picked Caleb up.
He noticed the new car.
“Looks nice.”
“Thanks.”
Then:
“You did that yourself?”
The question irritated me for half a second.
Then I realized he meant it admiringly.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“Good.”
Before leaving, he handed me Caleb’s backpack.
“His daycare needs the field-trip money Friday.”
“How much?”
“Thirty.”
“I’ll send fifteen.”
“I already paid it.”
I looked at him.
“Then I’ll send you fifteen.”
He nodded.
One expense.
Two parents.
No cousin.
No crisis.
No mythology.
May you like
Just thirty dollars.
I almost laughed at how impossible that once felt.
