My Classic Car Collection Became a Family Battlefield, and I Had to Draw Financial Boundaries

By eight, he let me sit behind the wheel of a car he was restoring, a 1965 Mustang. My feet couldn’t reach the pedals, but my hands gripped that steering wheel like it was my future.

He would run his rough hand along the fender and say, “Every car has a story. Someone worked for it, drove it to important places, made memories inside it. When you restore a car, you restore part of a life.”

Even as a kid, I understood what he meant. Cars were not just machines. They were time capsules. They carried people through the best days of their lives and the hardest ones. You could feel it if you paid attention.

My First Beater Car and My First Real Pride

When I turned sixteen, my grandfather helped me buy my first car. It was not cute. It was not cool. It was a barely running 1990 Ford Taurus with rust chewing through the wheel wells and an engine that sounded like it was struggling to keep going.

My friends were horrified. I was thrilled.