While I Was Reading My Dad’s Eulogy, My Stepmother Sold His Favorite Car – She Turned Pale After Discovering What Was Hidden Under the Spare Tire

I pressed the brake, feeling the familiar rumble of Dad’s Shelby settle through me. The lot was already packed. I found a spot under the old maple and killed the engine, resting my forehead on the steering wheel.

My fingers lingered on the keys — my car was in the shop, so I’d driven Dad’s all week. Every mile felt both like a tribute and a theft.

Dad should have been behind this wheel, not me. He should have been here.

Aunt Lucy hurried over as I got out, her eyes red but sharp.

“Oh, my darling girl! I can’t believe you brought it,” she said, nodding at the car.

My fingers lingered on the keys.

I shrugged, managing a wobbly smile. “He would’ve wanted it at his send-off. Besides, the Camry’s transmission finally gave up.”

She squeezed my hand. “Your father would have called that poetic.”

**

Light streamed through stained glass, dust lifting. For a second, I believed Dad might walk in late, joking about Main Street traffic.

The eulogy was a blur. I spoke about Dad’s patience, his stubbornness, the way he kept everything he loved running long after others would have given up.

“Your father would have called that poetic.”

“Dad always said you don’t quit on the things you love, even when it gets hard. He fixed up his father’s Shelby, bolt by bolt, for 30 years. He never let it rust. He did the same for people, too — especially when we made it difficult.”

My voice trembled, but I kept going. He would’ve wanted that.

When it was over, I was one of the last to leave the sanctuary, Aunt Lucy at my side.

“I’ll meet you at the car, Hazel,” she said, ducking back for her purse.

I nodded. We were going to check in on Karen on the way home.

He would’ve wanted that.

**