“Duncan,” I said, and the rest of the sentence hung there like a held breath. He blinked, the way he did when he was nine and caught with cookie crumbs on his lip. “Mom… what are you doing here?” he repeated, slower this time, like if the words took longer maybe they’d make more sense.
I stepped closer to the car, ran my fingers along the curve of the fender. It was warm under the showroom lights. Alive.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I said. “But I’ll answer your question. I’m buying my car.”
The salesman—Ken, little name tag glinting—shifted his weight like he’d wandered onto a stage with people who hadn’t rehearsed together.
“We have your paperwork almost ready, Mrs. Trent,” he said. “Cash purchase, title in your name, and we’ll attach the custom order file after—”
Priscilla actually choked.
“Cash?” she repeated. The word came out like she’d bitten a lemon. Duncan’s eyes flicked from me to the car to the salesman, like he was adding columns his brain had never had to balance before.
“Mom,” he said slowly, “you… you can’t just… this is a Porsche.”
“Yes,” I said. “I can see that.”
“It’s a hundred and—” He sputtered. “How are you paying for this?”
“Legally,” I said.
“And in full. Ken can confirm.”
Ken cleared his throat. “All her funds checked out,” he said.
“Wire from her investment account cleared this morning. Very straightforward.”
Priscilla’s hand flew to Duncan’s arm. “Investment account?” she said.
“What investment account?”
“The one with my name on it,” I said. “Which, funnily enough, is how investment accounts work.”
The dealership had gone quiet. A young couple near the Macan display pretended to study trim options while their eyes stayed firmly on us.
Duncan took a step closer. “Since when do you have that kind of money?” he demanded. “You said you lived on your pension.
You said things were tight. You didn’t even upgrade your old Honda.”
“I didn’t say things were tight,” I corrected. “You assumed.
And I didn’t upgrade the Honda because it still ran. I was saving for something I actually wanted.”
“You’re seventy-six,” Priscilla snapped. “You don’t need a Porsche.”
I looked at her, really looked.
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