Listen to your father.

Listen to your father, I know what’s best for you.
How many times have I heard that? Boys, grades, etc. I always shrugged it off, because it seemed like something every father would say to their precious daughter. I can think of no better example of this situation then when my father called me on a Wednesday night in February of 2004, while I was out on a shopping trip with a friend, and said, “get home, I found you a car.”
I remember wincing. “A car?” I asked.
I could practically hear him nodding. “A car. Come on home, we need to pick it up before the dealership closes.”
I could have screamed. And now that I think back, I think I did.
I wasn’t like most high school girls, and I suppose I’m not like most grown women either. My dream vehicle had never been the cool convertible, or the pink Barbie jeep. My ideal automobile was actually a truck, a Dodge truck to be exact. That very truck was the one that I happened to be driving at that moment; it technically belonged to my father, but after a conversation a few months prior, where he had informed me that I should think of it as my truck, I had. If love for a piece of metal is possible, that’s what I felt. I probably wouldn’t have removed my rear end from the driver’s seat at all save for the fact that there is supposedly more to life; so now, it might be understandable why I was more than a little upset.
I felt a deep pit forming in my stomach as I pulled in the driveway, backing the truck into its designated spot in the garage. My father was fastidious about two things; keeping his women safe, and keeping the cars they drove safe. My mother’s car always stayed in the garage, and as long as I can remember her vehicles have always been in wonderful condition. My truck, and I say mine because I will always think of it that way, was parked right next to hers, safe and dry in it’s concrete bed. My father, on the other hand, the man that woke up earlier and came home later than either of us, parked in the turn around spot, the furthest and darkest spot in relation to the house. It might not seem like a big deal and to most people it probably wouldn’t be, but it was just one more example of how my father was always giving, and how up until this point, I never really noticed.
The ride down to pick up the car was a quiet one. I didn’t ask about the car and my father didn’t offer up much information; my mother was unusually quiet. It is my suspicion that either one or both of them knew that I was not going to be pleased with a car, and they weren’t interested in arguing. When we pulled into the car dealership, I realized why they might have thought this.
When my father first told me he wanted me to get a car, he asked me which brand/model I wanted. Not thinking that he was serious, I told him that the only car I would drive was a Dodge Neon, one of the more popular cars of that time. He had nodded in his offhand way, letting me know that either (a) he had listened, or (b) he had heard me speak, at the very least. As I exited my mother’s car, I stood next to what was to be my new car…new to me, at least.
The smooth body lines of the 2001 Dodge Neon before me were interrupted only by a low spoiler curved symmetrically along the trunk deck. It gleamed a newly washed silver, with a black pinstripe down the side that ended in a Dodge symbol. My father turned to me, smiling only slightly. “Well, what do you think?” he asked.
I swallowed hard.
“It’s great.” I said plainly. He nodded and turned to the dealer, exchanging a few words before the keys were handed over to me. “I’ll ride home with you.” My dad said, and my mom gave me a smile. “Have fun!” she said. I snorted a little and got in, certain that she was crazy.
We drove only partly in silence; my dad wanted to go over how much the car payment would be, how much the car cost, etc. As I looked over the interior, I noticed there were no power windows, no power locks, no cruise control. None of the features my truck had. None of the features my friends vehicles had. I sighed a little as we turned into the driveway.
“I’ll let you get your things out of the truck. From now on, you’ll only be driving the car.”
I was heartbroken.
As I opened the driver side door of the truck, after both of my parents had gone inside, I began to cry. This was my dream truck. This was what I wanted. Why did I have to trade down to such a crappy little car, with no horsepower, no power at all? As I peeled the “Dodge” steering wheel cover off, tears streamed down my face and I hopped down finally, ready to put everything in my new car. I’ll never forget that night; the night I felt like my dad hated me, for whatever reason, enough to rip away the one thing I felt I had earned from all of my years attempting to be a strong, stable daughter for my parents.
Over the years, I resented the car. My father had promised to buy me a truck, then he had. Then he ripped it out from underneath me so that I could ride around in some death trap, some little tiny car that offered little more than a spotless exterior. I wasn’t happy.
Grudgingly, I realized it wasn’t so bad. The little car was actually pretty fast; it could take most cars off the line. Even my boyfriend (now my husband) commented on how much a “freak” the little four cylinder was; how it never let me down, even when I was so angry at having a car in the first place that I purposely put off changing the oil for 20,000 miles. When my father and I picked up the car, it had around 50,000 miles on it. Now, it has 165,000 miles, and it’s still going, with little maintenance. But it’s not the car that ended up being the story; it’s my dad.
When I look back now, as an adult and not a pseudo-spoiled child, I am ashamed. My father, the man who has sacrificed for me and protected me all of my life, is massively taken for granted in my family. I had always considered him my best friend and thought that I treated him fairly; now I’m not so sure.
Looking back to the night that we picked up the car, I realized that it wasn’t a vengeful silence in my mother’s car on the way down, but more of a fearful one. The last thing my father has ever wanted to do is disappoint me; he’s spent all of his adult life working as hard as he can to make sure I never see a flaw. I realize now that his chatter in the car about the payment had nothing to do with punishing me for some unnamed sin, but that he was just trying to get me interested. He knew that gas prices were going up. He knew that, with my job uncertain and the fact that I was starting college wasn’t going to help fill the massive tank the truck carried. He knew that something wasn’t quite right with the brakes on the truck, he knew that it wasn’t safe. He knew that in the long run, I would be happier, and more importantly, safer, if I drove a newer, smaller vehicle. And just like he’s done as long as I can remember, he did the unpopular thing and chose to risk upsetting me for a few months to make sure that the future would be a little easier for me.
In the end, I love my car. I like to think I’m a pretty good driver; I’ve never gotten a ticket, gotten in an accident or even run into something unintentionally. I went to my first day of college in the Neon, my husband and I went out to dinner on our wedding night in the Neon, and we brought our first baby home in the Neon. It is full of memories, full of love and most of all, full of my dad. Sometimes when I look at it, I think about him. One day, he took the time out of his extremely busy schedule to stop and look at a car that he thought would be good for me. He knew it didn’t have all the bells and whistles, but he also knew that he raised me better than that. He loved me enough to hurt me, enough to be able to hurt me, to make things better, ultimately.

Listen to your father. He knows what’s best for you.