She flinched.
I almost apologized.
Then decided not to.
Truth did not need cushioning every time.
After a moment I said:
“But I hope your life is better.”
She looked up.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t gain anything if you stay miserable.”
That made her cry.
Not dramatically.
Her eyes filled.
She looked away.
“Thank you.”
We did not hug.
We did not exchange numbers.
We did not become friends.
We finished buying groceries.
That was enough.
Later, my daughter asked how I felt.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been talking about this for twenty minutes.”
“I’m processing.”
“Did you forgive her?”
I groaned.
She laughed.
“Had to.”
I thought.
“I don’t know if forgiveness is one event.”
“What is it?”
“Maybe a bunch of decisions not to keep collecting interest on old anger.”
My daughter stared.
“That’s annoyingly good.”
“Age.”
“You say that whenever accidentally wise.”
“Reliable defense.”
I eventually sold the Lamborghini at sixty-five.
My knees hated getting in.
My daughter pretended to grieve.
“You can’t.”
“I can.”
“It’s historical.”
“It’s a car.”
“It survived poultry.”
“That is not a collector category.”
The buyer was twenty-eight.
Black software engineer.
His father came with him.
The young man circled the car slowly.
Then looked at me.
“Is this the feather Lamborghini?”
I closed my eyes.
“My legacy is terrible.”
He laughed.
“No way.”
“Way.”
“Can you tell where?”
“No.”
He leaned toward the driver’s door.
Nothing.
The repair had held perfectly.
He seemed almost disappointed.
“Scars would be cool.”
“No.”
“Trust me.”
He smiled.
We finished paperwork.
Before leaving, he asked:
“Why sell?”
“My knees.”
He laughed.
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“No symbolism?”
“No.”
He looked disappointed again.
The blue Lamborghini pulled away.
I watched until it disappeared.
My daughter stood beside me.
“You sad?”
“Little.”
“Because story ends?”
“No.”
I looked at the empty driveway.
“Because I liked the car.”
That was healthier.
The object did not need to remain a monument.