Last Tuesday was especially tough.
The shop was overloaded, and right before lunch, a customer got in my face.
“You didn’t fix it!” he snapped, pointing at me.
“Sir, I explained last week—you have two separate issues. The check engine light is related to your emissions system. That’s a different repair.”
“I don’t care what you explained! You should’ve fixed everything!”
I sighed. “I can only fix what you authorize. It’s all on your invoice.”
He grabbed his keys. “This place is a joke. I’m leaving a review.”
Then he stormed out.
I stood there, wiping my hands, feeling that familiar sting. Still, I pushed it aside. People get frustrated. Cars are expensive. I understand that.
I just wish they understood me.
Near closing time, I was sweeping under a lift when my broom hit something solid.
It was a worn black leather wallet.
I opened it, expecting a few bills and cards—but instead, I saw thick stacks of $100 bills.
I froze.
It was more money than I’d had in my account in years.
For a moment, I imagined what it could do for us.
Rent was due in three days. The electric bill was overdue. My daughter needed new shoes—hers were worn through.
This money could fix everything… at least for a while.
Then I saw the ID.
An older man—late 70s. Thin gray hair. Tired eyes. His name was Gary.
Inside was also a folded note with an address and phone number.
I closed the wallet, my hands shaking.
What was I supposed to do?
I locked it in my toolbox and finished closing the shop, my heart pounding like I’d done something wrong just by finding it.
The drive home was silent.
My mom was cooking spaghetti, and the kids were doing homework when I walked in.
“Daddy!” my daughter shouted, running to hug me.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
My mom studied me. “You okay? You look pale.”
“Just a long day.”
After dinner, I tucked the kids into bed, but I couldn’t stop thinking about that wallet.
Finally, I made a decision.
“I need to run an errand,” I told my mom.
“This late?”
“I won’t be long.”
She nodded. “Be careful.”
