Then I'd remember.
The garage would suddenly feel much quieter.
One afternoon, while trying to reconnect part of the wiring harness, I became so frustrated that I threw the wrench onto the workbench.
It clattered across the wood.
I rubbed my face.
"I know," I muttered to the empty room.
"Tout ce qui vaut la peine d'être voulu vaut la peine d'être construit."
The words escaped before I realized I was smiling.
I could almost hear Dad laughing.
"Now quit complaining and find the right socket."
I shook my head.
"You always made it sound easier."
Of course, there was no answer.
Only silence.
But somehow, it wasn't an empty silence anymore.
C'était familier, presque réconfortant.
Plus je passais de temps dans ce garage, plus je remarquais des choses que je n'avais pas vues le premier jour.
Dad hadn't just restored a car.
He'd built a classroom.
Chaque tiroir avait des étiquettes expliquant ce qui appartenait à l'intérieur, et chaque outil accroché dans le contour exact peint sur le panneau de cheville.
Plastic containers held handwritten notes.
"Use anti-seize here."
"Don't overtighten these bolts."
"Test before installing."
They weren't instructions for himself.
They were instructions for me.
I sat down on the rolling mechanic's stool and looked around the garage. For years, I'd imagined Dad was hiding something from us.
The truth was almost funny.
He hadn't been hiding anything.
He'd been building something.
Every weekend.
Every spare afternoon.
Every retirement project.
Not for Derek.
Not for Ryan.
For me.
Because he knew I'd come back.
A month passed before either of my brothers called.
Ryan was first.
"So?"
"So what?"
"The garage."
"What about it?"
"Was there anything worth keeping?"
I looked across the garage at the Mustang.
"It depends what you mean by 'worth.'"
He laughed.
"Come on."
"Was there money?"
"No."
"Jewelry?"
"No."
"So it really was just an old garage."
"I guess."
