At the time, he worked as an auto mechanic in a small garage on the other side of town. He often came home with grease beneath his fingernails, tired eyes, and the faint smell of engine oil clinging to his work clothes.
But he also came home with little surprises.
Sometimes it was my favorite chocolate.
Sometimes it was a handful of flowers from the grocery store.
And sometimes it was nothing more than a warm embrace and a question about how my day had gone.
I loved him for the man he was.
My mother, Linda, saw things differently.
She never approved of Ethan.
It wasn’t because he was unkind or irresponsible.
It wasn’t because he treated me poorly.
It was because he didn’t have money.
To my mother, a man’s worth could apparently be measured by the size of his bank account.
And she made sure Ethan understood exactly how little she thought of him.
