And spent more nights than I could count reviewing invoices at a kitchen table after everyone else went to sleep.
But the company grew.
I hired technicians.
Built relationships with industrial clients.
And eventually reached a point where I could choose projects instead of accepting every opportunity that appeared.
I wasn't a billionaire.
I didn't own a fleet of private jets or an enormous collection of luxury cars.
But I had a stable business, a comfortable income, and enough savings to buy a home where I could finally build the workshop my father always dreamed about.
Then he became ill.
At first, he complained about fatigue.
Then dizziness.
Then he began having difficulty completing tasks he once performed effortlessly.
The doctors identified a serious condition requiring prolonged treatment.
My sister and I reorganized our lives around his appointments.
I reduced my travel.
She helped with daily care.
And the Phoenix remained in its garage beneath a breathable protective cover while we focused on keeping our father comfortable.
He never stopped asking about the car.
Sometimes, on days when he felt stronger, he'd request photographs.
He wanted to know whether the tires were properly supported, whether the battery was disconnected, and whether I'd checked the moisture level in the storage space.
I always smiled.
"Dad, it's fine."
He would look at me.
Then ask another question.
I eventually learned to bring the maintenance notebook to his appointments.
It made him happy.
And during those months, I began understanding something about love.
Sometimes preserving a person's dignity meant allowing them to remain interested in the things that had always made them who they were.
My father died two years before I moved into Westbridge Estates.
He was eighty.
My sister and I stood beside him during his final hours.
He didn't deliver a dramatic speech.
He was tired.
His voice had become soft.
But shortly before he died, he asked whether I still had the small metal key to the Phoenix's glove compartment.
I told him I did.
He nodded.
Then asked me to keep the paperwork together.
I promised.
He looked toward my sister.
Then back at me.
For a moment, his eyes filled.
"Don't let anybody tell you it's just an old car."
I squeezed his hand.
"I won't."
He died the following morning.
After the funeral, I couldn't enter the garage for nearly three weeks.
Every tool reminded me of him.
The old workbench.
The jars of carefully labeled bolts.
The stained shop towels folded beside the sink.