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.**
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I asked my lawyer whether she could actually do that.Find Lawyers
“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.
