He has his mother’s kindness, but physically, he is a carbon copy of his father. He has the same unruly hair, the same crooked smile, and the same quiet, observant nature. This spring, Wyatt turned sixteen. We had a small family barbecue in the backyard to celebrate.

I bought him a set of tools—a good, heavy starter set. He loved them, turning the ratchets in his hands the same way his dad used to. Later that afternoon, while the rest of the family was inside having cake, I went out to the garage to grab a few folding chairs.

I was at the workbench when I realized I wasn’t alone. Wyatt had followed me out. He stood in the doorway, perfectly still. My breath caught in my throat. He was leaning against the doorframe, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, one ankle crossed over the other.

It was a mirror image of David. The exact stance my son used to take when he was mulling over a complicated engine problem. Wyatt’s eyes weren’t on me, though. They were locked onto the massive, dusty mound in the corner of the garage. He stared at it for a long, heavy minute.

Then, he looked at me, his eyes wide and earnest. “Grandpa,” he said, his voice cracking just a little with adolescent hesitation. “Can we finish it?” The silence in the garage was deafening. I felt a tight, agonizing lump form in the back of my throat.

I looked at the tarp, then back at Wyatt. I saw the desperation in his eyes, the need to connect with a father he barely got to know. I knew, in that split second, that saying no wasn’t an option.

I didn’t trust my voice—if I opened my mouth, I knew I would start sobbing.

So, I just nodded. I walked over to the front bumper. Wyatt moved to the rear. Together, we grabbed the thick canvas and pulled. Dust cascaded into the air, catching in the afternoon light spilling through the garage window. As the tarp fell away, the deep blue paint—still pristine beneath the grime—caught the light.

The scent of old oil, stale gasoline, and vintage vinyl rushed out to greet us. It smelled exactly like 2017. It smelled exactly like David. Wyatt ran his hand reverently along the fender. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered. “Let’s get to work,” I finally managed to say, my voice thick.

We started by taking stock of where David and I had left off. We propped the heavy steel hood up, the hinges groaning in protest after years of disuse. I started showing Wyatt the basics, explaining the fuel system, tracing the lines for him. He was a natural.

He listened intently, his hands eager to learn. For the first time in seven years, my garage felt alive again. We had been working for about an hour.