I kept my voice steady. “Sir, I told you there were two issues. You approved one repair. The other is separate.”
“I don’t care about your explanations,” he snapped. “You should’ve fixed everything.”
“I can only do what you authorize.”
He shook his head, already walking away.
“This place is a joke. I’m leaving a review.”
The door slammed behind him.
And I just stood there.
Not angry.
Just… tired.
Because people see the grease on your hands and think that’s all you are.
They don’t see the rent.
The bills.
The three kids waiting at home.
The Wallet
By the time the shop emptied out, I grabbed a broom and started cleaning under one of the lifts.
That’s when I hit something.
I bent down and picked it up.
A wallet.
Old leather. Worn edges. Heavy.
When I opened it… my chest tightened.
Cash.
Stacks of it.
Hundred-dollar bills, folded neatly.
For a moment, everything else disappeared.
All I could see were numbers.
Rent.
Groceries.
New shoes for the kids—because the boys had been wearing the same pair for months.
That money could’ve changed things.
Maybe not forever.
But long enough to breathe.
Then I saw the ID.
An elderly man. Late seventies.
