Chapter 3: The Car I Helped Buy
The absurdity hit me all at once.
That car existed because of me.
When my father died, I sold his lake house. Part of the money went into savings. Part paid bills. And part went toward the vehicle Logan insisted our growing family needed.
For months, he had obsessed over it.
He researched leather conditioners.
Compared luxury packages.
Spent more time reading car forums than helping assemble the crib.
Standing there outside the hospital, holding our newborn daughter, I suddenly saw everything differently.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I paid too much for this car,” he replied.
I stared at him.
My body hurt everywhere.
My daughter weighed barely seven pounds.
And somehow, she was still more important to me than those seats could ever be.
“What exactly do you want me to do?” I asked.
Logan looked at me as if the answer should have been obvious.
“Call a cab.”
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