Vernon didn't show up.
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A few days later, I was tucking Rowan into bed.
He looked up at me with tired eyes and asked, "Dad, is your car still sick?"
I smiled. "No, buddy. She's better now."
Lena joined me in the hallway. "You really made me proud."
I shrugged. "I couldn't have done it without you."
"Dad, is your car still sick?"
She leaned against my shoulder. "You could have screamed or yelled in his face. But you didn't."
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"I wanted to," I admitted. "But you were right — facts sting longer than fists."
We stood there for a while, just watching our boy breathe. He'd fallen asleep.
I realized the car didn't matter. Neither did the noise, the fight, the rules — none of it truly mattered.
What mattered was that when our son needed help, I couldn't get to him because someone thought their pride mattered more than a child's safety.
"You were right — facts sting longer than fists."
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And now?
Now, I drive that Civic past Vernon's house every day. I even take the long way just to give him a better look.
Because it may be ugly, dented, and ancient.
But it's the car that beat a bully at his own game!
I even take the long way just to give him a better look.
If this happened to you, what would you do? We’d love to hear your thoughts in the Facebook comments.
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