“Yes. Three thousand dollars cash. A young man from Craigslist came and took it. Honestly, I didn’t think that old thing would bring even that much.”
The garage seemed to tilt around me. Patricia stood there in her pale cardigan, looking pleased with herself. She had always hated the garage. She called it clutter, a bad habit, a distraction from “real life.” My husband, Mark, never defended it. He only sighed and said his mother meant well.
“That car was a 1967 Shelby Cobra 427,” I said.
She waved her hand. “Old cars are still old cars.”
“It was one of the rarest American performance cars ever built.”
Patricia frowned. “Well, in the real world, three thousand dollars for something taking up half the garage is reasonable.”
I walked past her and stood where the Cobra had been that morning. I had uncovered it before work just to admire the paint. My grandfather Harold had taught me everything I knew about machines. After he died, restoring that car became the way I stayed close to him. Every bolt mattered. Every repair carried his voice.
“Show me the paperwork,” I said.
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