Professional photographs.
And relatives flown in from several states.
Brandy’s family couldn’t afford that.
Neither could Chance.
So Dad helped.
At least, that’s how he described it.
The truth was that he borrowed against the station.
Years earlier, we’d established a business credit facility to finance new underground fuel tanks and related improvements.
The tanks had been properly installed, documented, and inspected.
The station was operating well.
The credit arrangement was manageable when used for business needs.
Then Dad drew thirty-one thousand dollars from it to help pay for Chance’s wedding.
I found out while reconciling the statements.
When I asked about the withdrawal, Dad said it was temporary.
“Chance will pay it back.”
I looked toward him.
“When?”
He shrugged.
“Once they’re settled.”
They never settled that debt.
Every month, interest appeared on the station’s books.
Every month, I recorded it.
I didn’t attend the wedding in Mexico.
Somebody had to keep the business open.
Dad sent me photographs.
Mom called from the beach, laughing about the beautiful weather.
I smiled and congratulated them.
Then went back to changing the oil in Mr. Ruby’s Buick.
Mr. Ruby was one of our oldest customers.
He’d been coming to Doyle’s Service since the year Dad opened.
He always wore a baseball cap, always paid for his coffee, and always claimed the Buick ran better after I worked on it.
I liked him.
He used to say the station wasn’t just where he bought gas.
It was where he found out what was happening in town.
I wondered whether he’d still come around if Chance eventually inherited the place.
Then I stopped thinking about it.
There was work to do.
Chance and Brandy’s marriage lasted several years before they separated.
I didn’t know all the reasons.
I knew they argued about money.
I knew Chance made promises that were difficult to keep.
And I knew Brandy had grown tired of hearing that the next opportunity would solve everything.
When they decided to divorce, Chance hired an attorney from North Platte.
The divorce became expensive.
There was a house to divide.
Vehicles.
Savings.
Debts.
And disagreements about what each person had contributed.
Chance didn’t like the first attorney’s advice.
He believed the proposed settlement favored Brandy.
So he changed attorneys.
Dad paid the first lawyer’s bill.
Eighteen thousand dollars.
Again, the money came from the station’s credit line.
When I saw the withdrawal, I went into the office.
“Dad, we can’t keep doing this.”
He didn’t look up.
“It’s a family matter.”
I pointed toward the statement.
“It’s becoming a business problem.”
He folded the paper.
“I’ll handle it.”
Then Chance hired another attorney, this one based in Kearney.
His advertisements appeared along the highway.
The fees were higher.
The arguments continued.
And eventually, Dad drew another twenty-four thousand dollars from the station to pay for the representation.
That was when I understood how serious the situation had become.
The credit line was close to its limit.
The station was still operating.
We had customers.
The service bays were busy.
But the business was carrying obligations unrelated to the work that generated its income.
I tried explaining it.
Dad listened impatiently.
Then said something that ended the conversation.
“It’s my station, Ian.”
I looked toward him.
“I know.”
“Then let me manage my money.”
For a moment, I felt the familiar disappointment.
I’d spent years making sure the station’s accounts balanced.
Now Dad was using its borrowing capacity as though it were a family checking account.
And the person who’d never worked there was receiving the benefits.
I returned to the counter.
Poured myself a cup of coffee.
Took one sip.
Then poured it out.
It tasted terrible.
Some things never changed.
The bank sent a renewal notice later that year.
The credit facility was approaching maturity.
Given the outstanding balance and the station’s financial condition, the lender wasn’t willing to renew it on the existing terms.
The total secured obligation, including the remaining equipment financing and credit draws, was a little over two hundred thirty thousand dollars.
The bank wanted a resolution.
Dad tried refinancing.
He contacted two institutions.
Neither offered acceptable terms.
Part of the problem was the debt.
Part was the way the records were presented.
Dad knew the business through conversations and memories.
He didn’t know where to find all the inspection reports, fuel documentation, and financial records lenders expected.
I did.
But by then, Dad was too embarrassed to ask for help.
When he finally told me the full situation, the deadline was approaching.
We stood beside the coffee counter.
He looked out toward the pumps.
“They want the balance paid.”
I stared.
“All of it?”
He nodded.
I felt sick.
“Can we negotiate?”
“Tried.”
“Another lender?”
“Two already said no.”
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Dad whispered.
“I don’t think we’re going to keep it.”
I looked toward the sign outside.
DOYLE’S SERVICE.
Faded red letters.
Painted by the same hands that taught me how to change an oil filter.
For the first time, I realized the station might actually disappear.
Not because customers had stopped coming.
Not because the equipment had failed.
Because the borrowing had finally caught up with us.
The bank’s foreclosure process moved forward.
There were notices, deadlines, and opportunities to address the debt.
But no workable refinancing emerged.
Eventually, the property and the pledged business assets were sold through the authorized foreclosure process.
The lender acquired them when no competing bid exceeded its secured position.
The station closed.
The pumps were covered.
The service bays were locked.
And Dad stood across the street in the grocery store parking lot watching someone place signs on the doors.
I stood beside him.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then he said something quietly.
“I thought I’d leave it to the boys.”
I looked toward him.
For a moment, I wanted to ask which boys he meant.
Then I saw his face.
He looked devastated.
And despite everything, he was still my father.
So I simply said.
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
He nodded.
Then walked toward his truck.
Afterward, I took a job at the local agricultural co-op changing tractor tires.
It was honest work.
The hours were long.
The pay was decent.
But every morning, when I drove past the closed station, I felt something tighten in my chest.
Four pumps.
Two service bays.
A bad coffee machine.
Twelve years of my life.