I had just received my driver’s license and was eager to use it, but my dad was quick to point out that the eight inches of snow outside meant rookies should not be on the road.

After he left for work, I drove to a friend’s house anyway. I would be back by lunch. I’d be careful. Dad would never know.

On the way home I got in an accident at an intersection: I braked, slid thirty feet, and rear-ended the car in front of me. No one was hurt — though I had the distinct impression I would feel some pain after I told my dad what happened. His discipline usually took the form of spankings, tongue-lashings, and banishment to my room.

I called him from the nearest pay phone. He asked if everybody was all right, then said he was on his way.

The right front fender was bent against the wheel, preventing it from turning. When my dad arrived, he used a crowbar to pry the crumpled fender away from the tire.

“I’ll meet you at home,” he said tersely. “Drive straight there.” I nodded, worried my fender was in for a crumpling.

To my surprise he raised neither his hand nor his voice as he rendered his judgment: “I will order a new fender this afternoon, and you will pay for it. You will remove the damaged one now and put the new one on when it arrives. Get to work.”

I remember lying on my back on the concrete floor of our unheated garage that wintry afternoon, trying to loosen the bolts holding the bent fender in place while my hands cramped and my skinned knuckles stung. When I struggled with the most stubborn, rusted nuts, my dad lay down next to me, took the crescent wrench, and bloodied his own knuckles removing them.

No punishment he ever gave me was as effective as the mercy I received that cold January day forty-six years ago.

Published in READERS WRITE section of The Sun magazine, October 2022