I didn't learn any of that until months later.
At the time, all I knew was that Patricia had become unusually quiet.
The emails stopped.
The violation letters stopped.
Even her SUV disappeared from its usual parking space near the clubhouse.
I began hoping the hearing request had made her reconsider.
One Friday evening, I invited my mother and Jasmine to dinner.
My sister arrived with her thirteen-year-old son, Theo, who had inherited our father's enthusiasm for machines.
Theo loved the Silverado.
Whenever he visited, he asked whether we could open the hood.
He knew the engine's basic layout, could identify several common components, and was beginning to understand that working on cars required patience rather than simply collecting impressive tools.
That evening, he followed me into the garage.
"Uncle Marcus?"
"Yeah?"
"Can we work on Grandpa's truck tomorrow?"
I smiled.
"What does it need?"
He shrugged.
"Something."
I laughed.
"That's not a diagnosis."
He grinned.
"Could we change the oil?"
"Not yet."
"Rotate the tires?"
"Already done."
"Check the brakes?"
"Just inspected."
Theo looked disappointed.
I laughed.
Then pointed toward a small tool cabinet.
"How about we clean and organize Grandpa's old tools?"
His face brightened.
"Really?"
"Really."
I opened the cabinet.
Inside were wrenches, sockets, measuring tools, and several items my father had owned for decades.
Some were worn.
Others still looked nearly new.
Theo reached toward a ratchet.
"Is that Grandpa's?"
I nodded.
"One of his favorites."
He held it carefully.
Then looked toward me.
"Do you think he'd let me use it?"
My chest tightened.
I considered the question.
Then smiled.
"He'd make you explain what you're using it for first."
Theo laughed.
"Then he'd let me?"
"Probably."
My nephew turned the ratchet in his hands.
For a moment, he looked older than thirteen.
Then he said quietly, "I wish he was still here."
I swallowed.
"Me too."