Harold rarely responded with anger.
He let the quality of his repairs speak for itself.
But he never pretended that the unfair treatment didn't matter.
When Isaiah began learning the trade, his father taught him to document his work carefully.
Keep receipts.
Record parts.
Photograph major repairs.
And never let someone else's confidence substitute for actual evidence.
"People can say almost anything," Harold told him one Saturday afternoon. "The records help you remember what really happened."
Isaiah took that lesson seriously.
It served him through engineering school.
It helped when he began managing complex mechanical projects.
And it became essential years later when a blonde HOA president arrived at his garage with a clipboard and a story about authority she didn't possess.
The restoration began after Isaiah finished college.
He'd secured a reliable engineering position and saved enough money to help his father purchase the first necessary components.
They worked slowly.
Some weekends were spent cleaning and inspecting.
Others involved repairing body panels or reviewing mechanical problems.
They hired specialists for work requiring expertise or equipment they didn't possess.
There were long delays.
Unexpected expenses.
And moments when the project seemed impossible to finish.
But every completed stage brought them closer.
Harold wanted the Mustang painted bright yellow.
Isaiah initially preferred dark metallic blue.
They argued about it for weeks.
Finally, his father produced an old photograph showing the car shortly after he first purchased it.
Beneath the rust and faded paint, the original bright-yellow finish was visible.
Harold smiled.
"She was yellow before either of us started making decisions."
Isaiah laughed.
"All right. Yellow."
Then he pointed toward a photograph of another restored Fastback.
"But I want black racing stripes."
Harold pretended to consider it.
"Only if you promise not to make the engine louder than it needs to be."
They shook hands.
That was their agreement.
Years later, the finished car would carry the beautiful yellow paint Harold loved and the black stripes Isaiah insisted upon.
Every time Isaiah looked at it, he remembered the argument.
And his father's laughter.
Harold never lived long enough to see every final detail completed.
He died unexpectedly from a heart condition when Isaiah was thirty-one.
By then, the Mustang was running and the major restoration work had been completed, but several interior details remained unfinished.
The loss shattered Isaiah.
For weeks, he couldn't enter the workshop without feeling his father's absence.
The tools were still arranged exactly as Harold left them.