He laughed.
"Most good ones are."
I kept going.
Over the next eight years, the company grew.
We earned contracts for commercial electrical installations, building automation systems, and infrastructure upgrades.
I hired experienced technicians.
Promoted people who demonstrated skill.
Invested in training.
And tried to build the kind of workplace I had always wanted to join.
I made mistakes.
Lost bids.
Trusted the wrong subcontractor once.
Underestimated a project badly enough to spend months recovering the loss.
But I learned.
Eventually, Reed Electrical Solutions employed twenty-eight people and handled projects across Arizona.
I wasn't a billionaire.
I wasn't secretly a federal agent.
I wasn't the owner of Cedar Ridge Estates.
I was a hardworking businessman who had become financially comfortable because he spent years building something useful.
And in 2025, I finally purchased the house I had always wanted.
A spacious beige two-story property in a gated suburban development outside Scottsdale.
Four bedrooms.
A three-car garage.
A landscaped backyard.
And a driveway wide enough to park my father's blue pickup beside the car I used for daily commuting.
At least, that's what I intended.
Because the truck became mine for reasons that had nothing to do with its market value.
My father died nine months before I bought the house.
He was seventy-one.
For nearly two years, he had been struggling with heart disease that gradually reduced the energy of a man who once believed every mechanical problem could be solved before lunch.
He hated becoming dependent on other people.
Not because he lacked gratitude.
Because he had spent his life being the person everyone called for help.
When I visited, he often tried to stand before I reached the door.
He wanted to carry groceries.
Check the oil in my car.
Ask whether my work van needed servicing.
Even when his body was exhausted, his mind still moved like a mechanic listening for the source of a problem.
The last time we worked together in his garage, he sat in a folding chair while I replaced a worn component in his Chevrolet Silverado.
The pickup was a metallic-blue 2018 model he had purchased after retiring.
He loved it.
Not because it was the most expensive truck on the road.
Because he bought it with savings he had set aside for years, after finally convincing himself he deserved something new.
He kept it immaculate.
The paint shone.
The interior smelled faintly of leather conditioner.
And a small photograph of my mother was tucked into the dashboard compartment.
That afternoon, he watched me work.
Then shook his head.
"You're doing that the hard way."
I laughed.
"Dad, I'm forty-one."
"And still using the wrong tool."
I looked toward him.
He smiled.
Then pointed toward a socket on the bench.
I picked it up.
It fit perfectly.