His eyes filled.
“Maybe not the walking, sweetheart. But everything else? We’ll figure it out together.”
And he meant it.
Dad was a mechanic.
Before my accident, Mr. Harris, the owner of the garage where Dad worked, had offered him the chance to buy it.
Dad had almost enough money.
He even kept a photograph of the building inside his toolbox.
Then came the hospital bills.
The wheelchair.
The ramp.
The changes our little house needed.
His savings disappeared.
One afternoon, I watched him take the photograph out of his toolbox.
He studied it for a long time.
Then carefully put it away.
When he noticed me watching, he smiled.
“Come on, Bug. Let’s see if we can make that ramp a little smoother.”
Dad never mentioned buying the garage again.
Instead, he worked three jobs.
Sometimes he came home after midnight.
Still, he’d sit beside my bed and read to me.
Even when he fell asleep halfway through a sentence.
And he made things.
Wonderful, ridiculous things.
