I wrote a little while ago about my struggle with deciding whether or not to sell my truck. I must have woken up every single day with a different plan – fix it, sell it, retire it to friends or family, do something with it that I felt okay with. Except I couldn’t figure out what that was.
Well, the first day Tristan was in the hospital – the morning after we transported him there in the middle of the night, when I woke up after 90 minutes of sleep and drove back up to be with him – I listed the truck for sale.
truck photo from the sales ad
I still struggled with it. I didn’t want it to go to some teenager who would just trash it.
Last week, I got an inquiry for it, and after a phone call with more details, a man drove over from two states away to look at it and then buy it. He was excited to get it, and enormously kind about the whole thing – he could tell how much I was struggling with it, and I told him repeatedly that it was my baby.
I said one last goodbye. The buyer looked at me and said, “Don’t cry.”
I said, “Oh, I am absolutely going to cry, but I’ll wait until you drive away.”
He drove away.
I made it back in the house, and then I lost it.
It’s been really hard not to see it there. I know it was the right decision, and it’s gotten easier as the days go by. The money went into Tristan’s savings account and into another account to save for a new future car or truck. I’m still sad, though, every day. It was the very best truck in the whole world, and there will never be another like it.