But as I drove home, the anger started to fade, and this heavy feeling took its place. I looked at the red hood of my truck, shining in the sun.

My late husband, Jack, used to ride shotgun in this truck. He was the one who always told me to never let anyone make me feel small.

I kept thinking about all the other people who come into that shop. Older women who don’t know a wrench from a screwdriver. Widows who are already scared and lonely, just trying to keep their cars running so they can buy groceries.

How many of them actually signed that paper? How many of them handed over their savings because some polite young boy told them it wasn’t safe to drive?

I got home and parked in my driveway. I sat in the cab for a long time, just listening to the engine idle. It sounded perfect.

I went inside and washed my blouse in the sink, but the grease stain wouldn’t come out. I guess I’ll keep it in the closet anyway. It’s a good reminder that sometimes, you still have to fight.