She called it Grandpa's Blue Rocket.
Sometimes she helped me wash it.
Sometimes she sat in the passenger seat and asked questions about the dashboard, the steering wheel, and why older cars sounded different from newer ones.
Her favorite place was the little seat beside me when we drove slowly through town on Sunday afternoons.
My wife looked toward the dent again.
"What are you going to do?"
I leaned against the workbench.
"First, I'm going to get an independent repair estimate. Then I'm going to find out why this woman is so determined to make us obey an HOA we never joined."
My wife studied me.
"You're thinking there's more to it?"
I nodded.
"Nobody spends months issuing fake violations over a car this clean without wanting something."
She looked toward the street.
"Then don't investigate it yourself."
I smiled faintly.
"I know."
She gave me a serious look.
"I'm not joking."
"Neither am I."
I took her hand.
"If there's misconduct, someone independent will handle it. But I'm still allowed to gather my property records and understand what this association is claiming."
She nodded.
Then she squeezed my hand.
"Good."
For a moment, we stood together beside the damaged Mustang.
Then she said, "Your father always knew this neighborhood would change."
I looked toward the new homes beyond the trees.
"Yeah."
She smiled sadly.
"He just didn't think people would forget how to be neighbors."
That evening, our daughter saw the dent.
She had been at a friend's birthday party and came home carrying a little gift bag and a paper crown decorated with glitter. She ran into the garage looking for me, then stopped when she noticed the blue Mustang.
Her smile disappeared.
"Dad?"
I turned.
"Hey, sweetheart."
She pointed toward the fender.
"What happened to Grandpa's car?"
I took a breath.
"Somebody damaged it."
She walked closer.
Her small fingers hovered above the dent without touching it.
"On purpose?"
I hesitated.
Then I nodded.
"Yes."
Her eyes filled.
"Why would somebody do that?"
I knelt beside her.
"Because sometimes people get angry and make bad choices."
She studied the scratch.
"Did you get angry?"
I smiled sadly.
"Very."
"What did you do?"
I looked toward the open garage.