I heard weird sounds coming from our garage every night, and I was appalled to see what my husband was doing there 
It didn’t seem like much at first. A little creak, a low hum, or the subtle clinking of metal. I assumed that he was either repairing the automobile or had taken up a new pastime. But his actions become more bizarre every day.
After the kids had gone to sleep, dad would quietly get up from the table and go to the garage. His clothes had strange reddish stains, and he was fatigued when he arrived late at night. He responded to my inquiries with brief responses:
— At work. Don’t inquire.
And he yelled angrily when I demanded to know what he was doing in the garage one day:
You have nothing to do with it.
I was offended by those remarks and became skeptical. He was almost unrecognizable to me now.
I started to worry about the worst since it felt like a wall had formed between us.
I made the decision to learn everything one day while he was at work. I stepped out into the yard, grabbed the keys, and paused in front of the rusting garage doors. My heart was beating so loudly that it sounded like it could be heard across the street. I put the key into the lock with shaking hands and opened the door gently.
It smelt of wetness and was gloomy inside. Then I noticed it. and froze in fear.
An antique motorcycle stood in the center. Or, more accurately, what remained. Disassembled nearly to the last screw, with tools and spare part boxes all around.
Old black-and-white photos were hanging on the wall. The same man, his father, showed up in each of them.
It was like a shock of electricity to me. His father had passed away many years ago on that very motorcycle. I knew my husband had been greatly affected by the event, and he had never like discussing it.
However, I had always shunned the topic—exactly because I was aware that this iron beast had claimed a life.
Everything was now obvious. That identical motorcycle was being restored by him. In secret from me, at night. He knew I wouldn’t approve, so he hadn’t told me. I’d be terrified.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the door doorknob while I stood there. Despite my uneasiness, I also felt resentment and… compassion. The machine wasn’t the reason he was doing it. He was attempting to restore his father’s memory in order to make up for what he had lost.
I now had to choose whether to denounce him for this secret. or to embrace his suffering and the method he had decided to use to deal with it.
