By the time my son’s smiling face showed up on my LinkedIn feed, standing in front of my old shop and thanking “the family that believed in my vision from day one,” I already had a U.S. lawyer warming up a chair in his downtown office and a plan to take back every dollar he’d forgotten I ever gave him.

Twenty-four hours later, the money was back in my account.

Forty-eight hours after that, my son’s shiny new American dream garage had a choice: come up with $90,000 plus interest, or watch the whole deal crack like a windshield on an icy interstate.

He called me seventeen times that afternoon.

I didn’t pick up once.

Let me back up.

My name is Tom Bradford. I’m sixty-three years old. I’ve been a long-haul trucker longer than most people reading this have been alive—forty years running freight back and forth across the U.S. and up into Canada. I know every interstate from I-5 on the West Coast to I-95 on the East, every bad diner, every decent coffee, and every lonely stretch of highway where it’s just you, the radio, and the dark.

I started driving when I was twenty-three, right after my wife died giving birth to our son, Daniel.

One minute I was holding Karen’s hand in a hospital room just off a busy U.S. maternity ward, watching monitors beep like it was all under control. The next minute doctors were shouting codes and pushing me back. Then someone put a swaddled baby boy in my arms and said, very gently, “I’m so sorry.”

That was it. Twenty-two years old, a widower, with a newborn that smelled like milk and the end of the life I thought I was going to have.

There wasn’t any family to step in. My parents had passed years earlier. Karen’s folks decided, in a way only hurt people can decide, that somehow this was my fault—like I’d chosen the wrong hospital or the wrong country or the wrong everything. They stopped answering my calls.

So it was just me and Danny.

Those first years, I drove whatever routes I could get. Short hauls, cheap runs, anything that let me be home some of the time. When he was old enough, I bolted a baby seat into the passenger side of the cab. He’d sleep while I drove overnight across Montana and the Dakotas, little head bobbing with the rhythm of the road. When he woke up, I’d sing him the old songs my mother used to hum washing dishes in our tiny American kitchen, pointing out the states as we crossed them.

Money was always the enemy. Trucking pays all right, but raising a kid on one income doesn’t care how many miles you put in. I took holiday runs when other guys wanted to be home. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, I was on the interstate while my son sat with a neighbor who watched him for cheap. Every overtime shift went into a savings account I named in my head: “Danny’s Future, USA.”

We lived in a small apartment in a not-so-great building. Nothing glamorous—thin walls, rattling heater, no view but a parking lot—but the rent was paid and the fridge had food. He wore secondhand clothes until he was sixteen, and most of his birthday presents came from the discount aisle, but I made sure he never went hungry and never missed a day of school.

I taught him to read with road signs and motel brochures. We did math with fuel receipts and mileage logs. When he had a science project, we built it on my days off, using leftover parts from the rig.

And cars—well, he loved cars like some kids love video games.

By fourteen, he could change oil faster than half the quick-lube shops from Kansas to Colorado. At fifteen, he was rebuilding old engines in our parking spot, neighbors yelling about the stains while he lay under some rusty Chevy, grease up to his elbows and a grin on his face.

I was proud. Not the kind of proud you talk about much. The kind that sits in your chest while you watch a kid with your wife’s eyes and your stubborn jaw figure out a carburetor no one showed him how to fix.

When he graduated high school, he came to me with a notebook. “Dad,” he said, “I want to open my own shop.”

He laid it out at the cheap kitchen table: a small auto repair place in our mid-sized American city, a real blue-collar neighborhood. Honest work. Fair prices. A place where people who drove old trucks and minivans could get repairs without being treated like they were stupid or invisible.

It was exactly the kind of thing his mother would have loved.

He’d done his homework. Costs, rent, permits, tools, insurance. He needed $120,000 to get started.

I had $90,000.

Forty years of driving. Every Christmas run, every double shift, every vacation I didn’t take. Money I’d planned to use in a few years to maybe buy a little place near the ocean—somewhere quiet like the Maine coast, where I could listen to the waves instead of Jake brakes and finally let my body rest.

I stared at that number in my bank account for a long time.

Then I gave him all of it.

I didn’t loan it. I didn’t write up a repayment schedule. That’s not how my generation did things with their kids. We were raised on the idea that the whole point of busting your back in America is to build something for the next person.

Fathers give. Sons build. That’s the deal.

I did have my lawyer, Frank Peterson, draw up one small clause. Not because I didn’t trust my boy—back then I trusted him with my life—but because Frank insisted.

“Just in case,” Frank said, sliding the papers across his worn desk. “If the business ever sells, you own thirty percent on paper. Silent partner. You never know what can happen down the road, Tom. This is the United States—people sue over coffee being too hot.”

I laughed, signed, and never thought about it again.

When I handed Daniel the bank draft, he cried. Actual tears on his grown-man face. “I’ll pay you back, Dad,” he said. “Every cent. With interest. You’ll retire early. I swear.”

“Don’t make promises like that,” I told him, pulling him into a hug so tight he wheezed. “Just build something your mom would be proud of.”

He squeezed me even tighter. “I’ll make you proud too.”

Three years ago, that was.

The shop did well. Real well.

He started on a rough stretch of road near the freeway, cheap rent and a dingy sign that said “Danny’s Auto Works” in hand-painted letters. First customers were neighbors, people who’d seen him under cars since he was a teenager. Then came coworkers, then their spouses, then random folks who heard that “the kid at that little shop actually knows what he’s doing and doesn’t overcharge.”

He was magic with engines. He had that touch you can’t teach. Within a year, his calendar was jammed two weeks out. Within two, he had three mechanics working for him, good guys who reminded me of him a few years earlier.

I’d stop by after long runs, boots dusty, high-viz vest still on, and he’d show me each new purchase like a kid with Christmas presents.

“Check out this lift, Dad. Look at this diagnostic machine. We can plug in any car now. I’m killing those dealership prices.”

He was happy. I was happier than I’d been in decades. It felt like the American story was finally working the way they say it’s supposed to.

Then he met Vanessa.

She came in with a BMW making a noise she didn’t like, wearing a dress that probably cost more than my truck payments and shoes that had never seen a puddle.

He fixed the car in an hour, charged her less than the dealership would have quoted for just popping the hood. She was impressed. She was also interesting in all the ways young men notice: blonde, polished, effortless.

Turned out her father owned a small regional auto group—dealerships, marketing offices, all that. She did “brand strategy” for the family business. Had an MBA. Knew how to talk money in a way that made older men lean forward.

My son was done for by the time she drove that BMW off the lot.

I understood. She was everything he thought people like us didn’t get: shiny, educated, plugged into a world that spoke in stock prices and networking events instead of lug nuts and torque.

She liked him too. Or at least, she liked what he represented. “You’re so real,” I overheard her say once. “So different from the guys I usually meet.”

She started stopping by more often. Coffee drop-ins turned into whole afternoons in the office “helping with marketing.” Within three months, I never saw the shop computer without her hand on the mouse. Within six, she’d moved into his apartment.

I met her properly a handful of times. She was polite, always. “Tom,” she’d say with that practiced smile, tilting her head just enough. “So nice to see you.”

But there was something in the way she looked at me. A tiny flicker that moved from my steel-toed boots to my faded cap to my rough hands. Not disgust, exactly. Just a silent evaluation that ended with a quiet verdict: not useful.

The first time it really hit me was after a six-day haul from Seattle to Chicago and back. I pulled into the shop lot dusty and exhausted, wanting to surprise my kid.

There were customers sitting in the waiting area, the kind with clean nails and watches that immediately tell you their cars cost more than you make in a month. I walked in, cap in hand, smelling like diesel and highway coffee.

Vanessa saw me. For a split second, her face changed—tightened, like somebody had brought a stray dog into her new house. Then the smile slid back on.

“Tom,” she said, physically stepping between me and the office door. “We’re in the middle of something with clients. Important clients. Maybe you could come back later?”

She called me Tom. Not Mr. Bradford. Not “Daniel’s dad.” Just Tom, like I was a vendor or a delivery guy dropping off parts.

I left.

Daniel called that night, apologizing. “She’s just stressed, Dad,” he said. “We’re trying to land this fleet account. Come by any time. You know that.”

But his voice sounded further away than the miles on my odometer.

Things shifted after that. Slowly at first, like a car drifting out of alignment.

The name changed. Danny’s Auto Works became “Bradford Automotive Solutions,” with a sleek new logo that looked like a tech startup. The walls got repainted. The beat-up folding chairs in the waiting area got replaced with leather. The shop floor, once cluttered but honest, started to look like a brochure.

They moved away from regular folks’ cars into “premium imports” and “luxury vehicles.” The three original guys he’d hired, solid mechanics from working families, were let go—“nothing personal, Dad, they didn’t fit the new direction”—and replaced with dealership-trained technicians who charged triple.

My son started dressing different. The worn T-shirts and oil-stained jeans got swapped for fitted button-downs and expensive sneakers that had never seen a puddle in a parking lot. His hair suddenly had opinions.

He stopped calling every Sunday. Then every other. Then not at all.

When he invited me to the “grand reopening,” I pulled out the one suit I owned. Bought it for his high school graduation in a department store, back when Karen was still a daily ache and not an old scar. It still fit okay, if you didn’t look too hard at the cuffs.

The parking lot that night looked like a luxury car show. Inside, it was all catered appetizers on toothpicks and people talking about “scaling” and “the market” instead of brake pads and winter tires. There was even a local news crew.

The mayor was there. In my son’s shop.

Daniel spotted me. For a second, I saw my boy—the wide-eyed look, the real smile. Then it flickered off and the polite, coached grin took its place.

“Dad,” he said, hugging me without quite touching the front of my suit. “You made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said.

Vanessa appeared like she’d been waiting for her cue, in a black dress that probably had its own insurance policy.

“Tom,” she said, air-kissing near my cheek. “We’re so glad you’re here. Daniel, we need you for photos with the mayor. He’s only here for twenty minutes.”

“The mayor,” I repeated, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“We’ve got some very important connections here tonight,” she said, already steering my son away. “Media too. Big night for the business.”

The business, like she’d grown it from a seed. Like the man who’d emptied his entire retirement fund had never existed.

“Go,” I told my son. “We’ll catch up later.”

We didn’t. Every time I moved toward him, someone pulled him away—for a photo, a handshake, a quick meeting with some board member from Vanessa’s father’s auto group.

I spent the evening by the food table eating tiny sandwiches that didn’t taste like anything and listening to strangers tell each other what a “self-made success story” my son was.

At one point I heard Vanessa telling a local journalist how Daniel had “built this from nothing with his vision and grit.” She talked about his passion, his determination, his brand.

She didn’t mention me. Not once.

On the ride home, the interstate felt longer than it had in years.

Six months went by. I put my head down and drove. Denver, Dallas, Seattle, Chicago. U.S. highways blurred into each other. I told myself that kids grow up, that this was just a phase, that he’d remember who was there when the lights were off and the parties ended.

Then came my birthday.

Sixty-three. Just another number, but in my line of work you start to feel every year in your knees and your lower back.

I was on a run, parked overnight behind a truck stop in Wyoming, when I woke to a missed call from Daniel. There was a voicemail.

“Hey, Dad. Happy birthday. Things are crazy at the shop, but I got you something. I’ll drop it by the apartment this morning before work. Love you.”

I drove harder than I should have that day, pushing through the miles, eager like a kid on Christmas. It’s ridiculous to admit how excited I was about a birthday present at my age. But when your son—your only one—remembers, it lights something up inside you.

I climbed those apartment stairs with the bones of a sixty-three-year-old and the heart of a thirty-year-old dad.

There it was—outside my door. A fancy little gift bag from an upscale store. There was a card taped to it.

Inside the bag was a watch. Nice. Leather band, lots of small dials, shiny face. The kind of watch that looks good in LinkedIn profile pictures.

The card was one of those generic ones with “Happy Birthday!” stamped in gold on the front. Inside, the printed message was intact. Underneath, in looping, perfect handwriting that was not my son’s, someone had written:

“Happy birthday, Tom.
From Daniel and Vanessa.”

Tom.

Not Dad. Not even “Love, Daniel.” Just my first name, like I was a neighbor getting a polite thank-you note.

Vanessa’s handwriting. I’d seen it on shop paperwork. On marketing plans. On the new logo sketches.

She’d picked out the watch. She’d bought the card. She’d signed it. My son had dropped it outside my door like a package from an online retailer, then gone back to his real life.

He hadn’t even written his own name.

I stood there in the hallway holding that card, looking at that one word—Tom—until the letters blurred.

When did I stop being Dad?

I went inside. Sat on the couch in the dark. Didn’t turn on the lights. Just sat there with a $500 watch in my hand and forty years of sacrifice weighing down the room.

I didn’t sleep. Around three in the morning, like everyone with a smartphone and a hole in their chest, I started scrolling. Facebook. Old photos of my kid at Little League. Instagram. People’s dinners. Nothing filled the space.

I opened LinkedIn just to keep my thumb moving.

And there it was.

A professionally shot photo of my son in a fitted gray suit, standing in front of the freshly painted front of Bradford Automotive Solutions. Vanessa in that same black dress at his side, her parents and brother arranged around them, all of them smiling like a catalog for success.

The caption read:

“Excited to announce that Bradford Automotive Solutions has been acquired by Westbrook Auto Group. Grateful to the family that believed in my vision from day one and helped me build this dream. Here’s to the next chapter with the people who’ve always had my back. #AmericanDream #SmallBusiness #Grateful”

I read it once. Twice. A third time, slower.

The family that believed in my vision from day one. The people who’ve always had my back.

In the photo, “family” meant Vanessa’s father, who had shaken my hand twice and once asked if I’d ever thought about “getting out of the cab and doing something easier.” It meant her mother, who’d never had a conversation with my son longer than small talk at a party. It meant her brother, who looked at Daniel like he was lucky to be allowed into their orbit.

It did not mean me.

No mention of the forty years. No mention of the $90,000 that got the doors open. No mention of the widowed truck driver who slept in parking lots to keep the account full.

The comments underneath were worse. “So inspiring!” “Self-made.” “You built this from nothing.” “What an American success story.”

Built from nothing. Self-made.

I stared at those words while dawn crept around the blinds and turned the cheap furniture of my apartment into sharp outlines.

This was my life. A one-bedroom unit with thin walls where I could hear the neighbor’s TV. A twelve-year-old truck that needed a new transmission. A back that screamed every time I climbed out of the cab.

And a son who’d just announced to the world that the people who mattered, the people who counted as his real family, were the ones with money and clean hands.

At seven a.m., I called Frank.

He answered on the second ring, still half-asleep. “Yeah?”

“That money,” I said. “The ninety grand I gave Daniel. You remember how we structured it?”

He yawned. “Yeah, yeah. Hold on.” Papers shuffled. I could picture his cluttered little office downtown, American flag mug on the desk, diplomas crooked on the wall. “Here it is. Right. You gave it as a gift, but with that equity clause I insisted on. You own thirty percent of the business as a silent partner.”

“He just sold it,” I said. “To Vanessa’s family. It’s all over LinkedIn. Westbrook Auto Group. He never said a word to me.”

Silence. Then: “He sold it? Tom, that’s… he can’t do that. Legally, he can’t sell your share. He needs your signature.”

“He didn’t ask for it,” I said.

“Did you sign anything in the last year? Anything at all related to the business?”

“Nothing.”

Frank’s voice sharpened. “Then the sale is incomplete. If they didn’t disclose your ownership and didn’t buy you out, there’s a serious problem for everybody involved.”

“I don’t care about their problems,” I said. “I want my money back.”

“Tom, this is your son—”

“My son left a watch at my door and had his fiancée sign my birthday card,” I said. “My son just told the whole internet his real family is the one with the country club membership. This isn’t about punishing him. This is about me finally respecting myself.”

Frank sighed. The kind of sigh lawyers give when they know the law is on your side, but the heart stuff is going to be messy. “Give me two hours,” he said. “I’ll pull the public filings. See what they actually did.”

He called back in ninety minutes.

“You were right,” he said. “They never mentioned you in the documents. Your thirty percent doesn’t appear anywhere. Legally, you still own that stake.”

“So what does that mean?” I asked.

“It means if you push this, Westbrook’s lawyers will realize they bought a business with undisclosed ownership. That’s a nightmare for them—regulators, liability, the works. The cleanest way out is for them or Daniel to buy you out properly.”

“How much?” I asked.

Frank had already done the math. Of course he had.

“Ninety thousand principal,” he said. “Plus three years of appreciation on your thirty percent, based on the sale valuation. Comes out to about a hundred sixty-eight thousand U.S. dollars.”

“One sixty-eight,” I repeated. “So my life doubled while I was out there wearing it down on interstates.”

“Pretty much,” he said. “Tom, we can negotiate. They’re going to be upset. Daniel is going to be—”

“I’m done negotiating with people who forget I exist,” I said. “Send the demand letter. Today.”

“Are you sure?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.”

He sent it at noon to Daniel’s business email. A clean, professional note: Dear Mr. Bradford, as per our records, Thomas Bradford owns thirty percent of Bradford Automotive Solutions…

By my estimate, my son would see it around one, when he usually sat down for lunch and checked his messages.

At 1:15, my phone rang.

Daniel.

I watched it buzz on the table. Let it go to voicemail.

He called again. And again.

Seventeen calls between 1:15 and 5:00 p.m.

I watched each one without answering. My hands shook a little at first. Then they didn’t.

At 5:30, a text: Dad, please call me. This is serious.

At 6:00: We need to talk. This is a mistake.

At 6:30: Dad, answer your phone. Please.

I turned the phone off.

The next morning, an unknown number lit up my screen. Habit from years on the road made me answer.

“Bradford,” I said.

“Tom.” Vanessa’s voice. All the sugar stripped away, leaving steel.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

“Looks to me like I’m getting my money back,” I said.

“You’re going to ruin Daniel’s life,” she snapped. “Do you understand that? This deal, this acquisition, it’s everything we’ve worked for. If you push this, Westbrook might walk away. He could lose the entire shop. Do you really want that?”

“He already lost the shop,” I said quietly. “He sold it to your family. He just forgot to tell me.”

“We were going to take care of you,” she said. “Daniel was going to give you something from the sale. Not ninety thousand—that’s unrealistic—but a nice gift. A thank you.”

“A gift,” I repeated. “Like the watch?”

Silence.

“Here’s what I understand, Vanessa,” I said. My voice surprised me—it was calm, grounded, like I was on an empty highway talking to my CB. “You saw my son as a project. The rough kid with the calloused hands and the American flag cap who could be polished up and paraded in front of your father’s friends. Step one was making sure he forgot the life he came from. The secondhand clothes. The one-bedroom apartment. The trucker dad you didn’t want to introduce at the country club.”

“That is not—”

“You did a good job,” I cut in. “He forgot. You just made one mistake. You assumed that because I spend my days behind a wheel, I’m not smart enough to protect myself.”

“Tom, listen—”

“No,” I said. “You listen. I want what I’m owed. Ninety thousand dollars back in my name, plus the current value of my thirty percent. Frank’s told you the total. You have forty-eight hours to wire a hundred sixty-eight thousand U.S. dollars into my account. If it’s not there by then, we start the process to unwind your whole pretty acquisition. Your father’s lawyers can explain to his board why they missed a stakeholder.”

“This is insane,” she hissed.

“What’s insane,” I said, “is thinking you can erase a man from his own story and he’ll just smile and say thank you.”

I hung up.

For the rest of the day, my phone buzzed with numbers I didn’t recognize. Her father’s office. Their corporate counsel. Daniel. I answered none of them.

I went for a drive. Not for work, just for me. I took the old highway out of town, the two-lane road lined with fields and telephone poles, the kind trucking apps tell you to avoid because it’s not efficient. I rolled the windows down and let the wind in.

That evening, Frank called.

“They want to meet,” he said. “All of them. Daniel. Vanessa. Her father. They want to negotiate.”

“There’s nothing to negotiate,” I said. “They know my price.”

“Tom… your son is devastated,” Frank said. “He’s crying in my office. Vanessa’s father is furious, but his lawyers told him you’re in the right. This could destroy their carefully crafted deal.”

“Actions have consequences,” I said. “I won’t be the only one paying them anymore.”

“You really want to do this?” he asked.

I thought of Daniel as a baby, asleep in the cab. Daniel at eight, gripping the handlebars of a secondhand bike I bought off a guy behind a gas station. Daniel at eighteen, in a borrowed suit, shaking my hand on graduation day, eyes bright. Daniel at twenty-six, standing in a photo with people who had just replaced me.

“Yes, Frank,” I said. “I really do.”

They paid.

Forty-six hours after the letter went out, $168,000 landed in my checking account. U.S. dollars. Clean, clear, unarguable.

Frank emailed me the wire confirmation, the document where I formally gave up my ownership, and the non-disclosure agreement they’d insisted on. I signed it all and sent it back.

I wasn’t interested in going on TV. I wasn’t interested in telling the world anything. I just wanted what I’d earned back in my own pocket.

That night, around nine, I heard footsteps in the hallway. The sound I’d know anywhere: my son’s weight, my son’s gait. Some things you don’t forget.

He knocked.

“Dad,” he said through the door. “Dad, please let me explain.”

I stayed on the couch, five feet away, staring at the blank TV screen.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this. Vanessa said we’d take care of you. She said you’d be happy for us. I didn’t… I didn’t think about the paperwork. I just forgot. I know that sounds awful, but I did. I forgot.”

He hadn’t forgotten. He just didn’t think it mattered.

“Dad, please say something,” he begged. “Anything.”

My throat burned. My hand moved toward the door handle. I stopped it.

Because here’s the thing no one tells you when they make movies about sacrifice and selfless parents in this country: if you keep climbing up on the cross, people will absolutely let you.

I’d given him forty years. I’d given him my youth, my savings, my knees, my back, my sleep. I’d given him my silence while he erased me from his story.

This was the first time in my life I was choosing me.

I stood up, walked down the short hallway—but not to the front door. I went into my bedroom and closed that door instead.

Eventually, the sounds on the other side of the apartment door stopped. I heard him stand. Heard the soft brush of his sleeve against the wood.

“I know I messed up,” he said, voice raw. “I know I’ve been a terrible son. But you’re my dad. You’re all I have. Mom’s gone and… and you’re it. You’re my family.”

I leaned my forehead against my own door and closed my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I really am.”

Then the outer door clicked shut, and his footsteps went away.

That was four months ago.

The money is still sitting in my account. I haven’t touched it. Sometimes I open the banking app just to look at the balance in U.S. dollars and remember that I am not empty.

Bradford Automotive Solutions still exists, now fully under Westbrook Auto Group. They pumped more capital into it after my buyout, covered the hole with money and spin. Daniel is still there on the website as “General Manager, Strategic Operations,” smiling in his pricey suit.

He and Vanessa got engaged a month ago. I saw the photos on social media without seeking them out. The algorithm knows what hurts.

She’s in white. He’s in gray. They’re holding champagne glasses in front of a view of some American city skyline and the hashtag says #BestFriend #Forever. I scrolled past before I could read the rest.

He’s texted a few times.

Dad, can we talk?
Dad, I miss you.
Dad, I’m sorry. Please.

I haven’t replied.

Maybe one day I will. Maybe one day he’ll show up without Vanessa’s script in his mouth and we’ll sit at this cheap kitchen table and talk like two men who have both made mistakes.

But right now, not answering is the first boundary I’ve ever had, and I am not ready to give it up.

Yesterday, I got a call from a director at a group home in a town two hours away. They have an eighteen-year-old aging out of the system, a kid named Miguel who loves engines and wants to be a mechanic but doesn’t have anyone willing to co-sign his first set of tools or a community college course.

“Somebody told him you used to help young people get started,” the director said. “I don’t know if that’s still true.”

I thought of Daniel, fourteen, under a busted Chevy, grinning up at me with oil on his face. I thought of the tiny crack that became a shatter.

“Yeah,” I said. “Send him down next week. We’ll talk.”

I’m not giving anyone ninety thousand ever again. I’m not emptying myself to prove I’m worth loving. Those days are gone.

But I can buy the kid a decent starter set and pay a semester of tuition at a community college. I can teach him how to read a service manual and not let people walk all over him in the name of “family” or “loyalty.”

Because here’s what I’ve learned at sixty-three, after a lifetime of asphalt and exhaust and one sharp lesson on LinkedIn:

You cannot make anybody love you. You cannot sacrifice yourself down to dust and expect them to suddenly see your worth. Sometimes the people you give everything to will forget you first.

But you can decide who you are. You can decide what you’re worth. You can decide that the next person who tries to erase you from your own American story is going to run into a wall instead of a doormat.

Call it revenge if you want. People online love that word.

Me? I call it finally having self-respect.

And you know what?

For the first time in a long time, I sleep just fine at night.