I haven’t heard from her since.
If it weren’t for my mother, I don’t know how I would have managed. She’s seventy-two and still sharper than anyone I know. She braids my daughter’s hair before school, reminds the boys to brush their teeth, and somehow keeps the house running when I’m stuck at work.
I spend most weeks working twelve hours a day.
Replacing brake pads. Diagnosing engines. Listening to customers who think every repair is a scam.
People see grease on my hands and assume that’s all I am.
But those hands feed my kids.
And every night I wonder if I’m doing enough.
Last Tuesday was one of those days that seemed determined to test my patience.
The shop was packed. Cars lined up outside. A transmission job that should’ve taken two hours took four.
Right before closing, a customer stormed back into the shop.
