“Where your head would be.”
“What happens if somebody runs a light.”
“What happens if someone drifts across the median.”
“What happens if a truck…”
My voice failed.
Naomi moved closer.
“Dad.”
“I know.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“You don't.”
“I know you've been scared.”
“I didn't know you were carrying Mom's crash every time you looked at my car.”
I could not answer.
Maya quietly said:
“Would you like a few minutes?”
Naomi looked at me.
I nodded.
Maya stepped away.
She did not go far.
Just enough.
Naomi sat on the edge of the display platform beside the crossover.
I sat beside her.
For a while, we looked through the showroom windows.
Our old blue sedan sat in the sun.
The car Ellen had died in was long gone.
Different vehicle.
Different year.
Different life.
But in my head, old cars had merged together.
Anything I could not fully control became a warning.
Naomi spoke first.
“You know why I accepted the job?”
“Better opportunity.”
“Yes.”
“But not just that.”
I looked at her.
“I wanted something that was mine.”
“I know.”
She smiled sadly.
“Do you?”
That hurt because I knew what she meant.
After Ellen died, I became useful.
Too useful.
I fixed things Naomi had not asked me to fix.
I researched apartments before she moved.
Checked neighborhoods.
Looked up landlords.
Sent weather warnings.
Asked when she arrived.
Asked when she left.
Asked whether she had enough gas.
When she dated somebody, I wanted his full name before the second dinner.
Naomi tolerated much of it because she knew why.
That did not mean it was fair.
She said:
“You've always been there for me.”
“I know.”
“You never told me I couldn't do something because Mom died.”
“But sometimes…”
She searched for the words.
“Sometimes it feels like you've already imagined the worst possible ending before I’ve even made the decision.”
I looked down.
“That’s probably true.”
“The commute isn't nothing.”
“I know.”
“Forty-six miles is a lot.”
“I know.”
“I should think about the car.”
“I agree.”
“But I don't want to buy something because we're afraid.”
I looked at her.
Naomi continued.
“I want to choose because it fits my life.”
“Because I can afford it.”
“Because it makes sense.”
“Because I like it.”
“And yes, because it’s safe.”
“But safety can't become the only thing.”
“It matters most.”
“To you.”
The answer struck me.
She saw my reaction.
“I’m not saying it doesn't matter to me.”
“It does.”
“But if you could buy me a tank and make me drive twenty miles under the speed limit forever, part of you would.”
I almost laughed.
“Maybe not a tank.”
“Armored vehicle.”
“Better fuel economy.”
She smiled.
Then became serious.
“Mom died.”
“Yes.”
“We can't make that not true.”
“I know.”
“You can't keep it from happening again by making every decision for me.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“I know.”
“That’s what makes this hard.”
She rested her head briefly against my shoulder.
“You're trying to protect me.”
“But sometimes it feels like you don't trust me.”
I stared through the glass.
That was the sentence I needed.
Not the one I wanted.
“I do trust you.”
“I know you love me.”
“That wasn't what I said.”
I turned.
She was looking directly at me.
“I need you to trust me to make decisions you are afraid of.”
I sat quietly.
Then nodded.
“You're right.”
Naomi looked surprised.
“That easy?”
“No.”
I almost laughed.