And the reminder that my life didn't have to consist entirely of obligation.
Which was why seeing strangers attaching a wheel clamp to it in my driveway made me angrier than Sandra could possibly have understood.
Oakfield Estates seemed like the perfect place to start over.
The community sat in a quiet section of Douglas County, Colorado, where tidy homes lined gently curving streets and the mountains rose in the distance.
There were walking paths.
A small park.
A community pool.
And families who seemed to know one another well enough to wave but not so well that everyone felt entitled to ask personal questions.
The house I bought wasn't enormous.
It was a comfortable two-story home with stone details, a wide front porch, a three-car garage, and a driveway large enough for my Porsche and an ordinary family SUV.
The backyard had a small patio where Eli and I could grill.
There was a tree near the fence that he immediately declared would become the location of a future treehouse.
And the garage had enough room for a workbench and the collection of automotive tools my father left me.
The day I moved in, Eli walked through the house carrying a basketball.
He examined the living room.
The kitchen.
His bedroom.
Then the garage.
Finally, he looked toward me.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Is the Porsche staying here?”
I laughed.
“That's usually what garages are for.”
He grinned.
“Can we take it to school sometime?”
“Of course.”
He looked thoughtful.
“Not every day.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Why not?”
“Because then people would think we're trying to show off.”
I stared at him.
Then laughed so hard I had to sit down.
That was Eli.
Eleven years old and already more concerned about appearing obnoxious than most adults I'd met.
I put one hand on his shoulder.
“Fair enough.”
He smiled.
“But maybe on my birthday.”
“Deal.”
We shook hands.
And for the first few weeks, Oakfield Estates was everything I'd hoped.
The neighbors were friendly.
The streets were quiet.
Eli made friends with two boys who lived near the park.
And I began enjoying ordinary routines that had felt impossible during my more demanding assignments.
Then Sandra Holt appeared.
The first time I met her, she was standing beside my driveway with a tablet in one hand and an expression suggesting the Porsche had personally insulted her.