Published: 2025-09-01

Little Timmy loved cars since he was a baby. Back then, he didn’t play with rattles or animal plushies; it was watching the races with his Dad what interested him the most. His Dad would read car magazines to him, “You see Timmy, this is the Chevrolet Corvette ZR-1, one of the most beautiful designs I have ever seen in my life.” Timmy didn’t know what was going on back then, but he smiled all the same when looking at colorful pictures of cars and listening to his Dad go on and on about them.

From a baby, little Timmy became a toddler. Now he could walk and talk too, and had his own toy cars to play with — they weren’t Hot Wheels, though, because shocking hazard, but still.

His Dad would walk through the door with a new magazine every Sunday, and they would read it together. At only two years old, Timmy found his first love. “What is this one, Daddy?” Timmy asked one Sunday morning. “Ah!” His Dad said, “This is a BMW Z1, son. Not particularly fast, but surely a looker.” Timmy stood on his tiptoes to see the magazine’s pictures as his Dad sat in a wooden chair. He was fascinated. “I decided. That’s gonna be my car.” Timmy said. “It’s that right, kid? I’ll get it for you then.”

For his third birthday, his Dad gave him his first Hot Wheels: a BMW Z1. “Thank you, Dad,” Timmy said. They hugged for a moment. “Now I’ll get a real BMW Z1.” His Dad looked puzzled, “A real car? You’re still a kid, you cannot drive.” Timmy took a moment to think and then said, “Then I’ll work hard and get it when I can drive!” Timmy left running and went to play with his new Hot Wheels. “I’ll work hard and get it… This kid is going places.” His Dad said.

Some time passed, and one morning, while eating breakfast, Timmy asked his Mom:

“Are we rich?”
“No, Timmy, we are not rich.”
“Then we are poor, aren’t we?”

His Mom stopped eating.

“No, we are not poor either, sweetie. We are a hardworking family, that’s it.”
“OK. Can I get a BMW Z1 for my next birthday? A real one.”
“A car?”
“Uh huh.”
“Timmy, you’re a kid. You cannot drive a car.”
“I’ll wait until I’m older. It can stay in the garage until then.”

His Mom let out a chuckle.

“Oh, Timmy, the things you say. Now, finish your cereal.”

His words may have made his Mom laugh but Timmy wasn’t joking. He knew his parents won’t give it to him for his next birthday so had to get it himself.

One day, Timmy approached his Dad and asked him, “Dad, can you help me make a lemonade stand?” His father was in the lawn, resting with a newspaper over his face. “Why do you want to make a lemonade stand?” A muffled voice said from under the newspaper. “I need money to buy the BMW Z1.” His father removed the newspaper from his face. “Where did you get that idea from?” Timmy saw it in a cartoon. “I saw it on TV.” His Dad stood up, “Very well, let’s make you a lemonade stand, son!” Timmy’s mother observed from the kitchen window.

That night, Timmy’s parents laid in bed reading, before turning the lights off for the day.

“You know, Roger, I’m worried about our son.”
“And why is that?”
“He’s become obsessed with cars. He’s now saying he wants a BM-Something. He’s just a kid, and you’re enabling him.”
“He’s got a passion, a man's gotta have a passion.”
“But he is not a man, Roger, he’s a kid. Now you’re gonna make him sell lemonade? He’s only three years old. What are we? Indigents?”

Roger closed his magazine and looked Teresa in the eye.

“No, I didn’t make him sell lemonade; it was his decision. He came to me as his parent, asking for help, and I chose to support him. You should try doing the same sometime; Yes, I know he’s only three, and I applaud him for taking the initiative at such a young age; No, we are not indigents. We are hardworking people. And now, if that is all, I’m going to sleep. Goodnight.”

Roger turned the lamp next to him off and went to sleep. Teresa stayed there, furious, debating whether hitting him on the head or not.

Timmy started selling lemonade the next day; his mother got up early and made one jar for him to sell, Roger gave her a big hug and kiss on the forehead. His Dad was his first customer.

The first day, Timmy sold one jar of lemonade. Soon, he was selling two jars a day, three jars a day, and his piggy bank got bigger and bigger. When it filled up, Timmy and his Dad went to the bank and opened an account.

Soon the winter arrived and nobody would buy lemonade. Timmy was out of business. He went like that for a four years, selling lemonade in summer, resting the rest of the year. He didn’t make much money but it was all he could do for the moment.

At seven years old he started mowing lawns; at nine years old he started a paper router; at ten years old he started shoveling snow; at twelve years old his Dad passed away.

Timmy’s Dad was his hero, he taught him to love cars, he supported all his crazy ideas, he was the first in line to buy lemonade from him that hot summer day nine years ago. He was devastated.

From that day on, Timmy lost his spark. He wouldn’t come out of his room, and he wouldn’t try to save more money. If his Dad weren’t there to see him achieve his dream, to take that first ride with him, nothing mattered anymore.

His Mom let him grieve until she didn’t. She entered his room and slapped him.

“I told him. I told him not to encourage you. Not to enable you. Back when you were three. And you know what he told me? That it was your decision, and that he, as your father, will support you no matter what. I wanted him to stop. I wanted you to stop. But he told me I should support you, that that was my job. And I felt ashamed of myself for trying to take your dream away. And you know what I did the next morning? Lemonade. I got up early and made a jar of lemonade for you to sell. And now you are going to give up? After all your father did for you? You listen well, Timothee, you'd better drag your sorry butt out of this room, go out there, and start making money, because you soon will be old enough to drive, and you still haven’t bought that stupid car.”

Teresa fell to her knees and broke down into tears.

“You gotta do it, Timmy. You gotta go to the cemetery and tell him you made it. Or all his effort would have been in vain.”

Teresa stayed on the floor crying while Timmy sat in bed trying to process what had just happened.

THE END.