Growing up, the only things Dad loved were beer and his car, certainly not us.
My condition stopped me drinking, making me less than a man to him. To compensate, he pounded cars into me until I bled oil. I learned all he knew about auto repair: changed tires and rebuilt transmissions, while Mom tired of the beatings and left him. Us.
“Brake lines fixed yet?” He had a business trip. Eight hours on I-40.
I palmed the file. “Good to go.”
If I’d filed them right, they’d fail in the mountain passes.
Too late for Mom. Maybe not for me.