Childhood Memory

Childhood Memory
Ever since I was a kid, mornings have been hectic in my household. The combination of having a sister take 35 minute showers every morning, a mom never leaving the bathroom until her hair is done, and me never actually getting up in the morning is a sure-fire way to create stress in the a.m.
On the few mornings when I was on top of my game and awake, I did my best to hurry along the routines of others. Mostly this included feeding animals, making lunches, and starting my mom’s manual Honda Accord.
It was a cold December morning. One where you feel your nose hairs freezing on the way to the car, which is only a few short steps away from the front door. The car and ground below it were incased in ice.
I don’t know how it happened. This morning hadn’t seemed any different from the others. Did I forget to keep my foot on the break? Did I just pop the clutch? Whatever happened, there was a quick jolt of the car, and I soon found myself halfway through the garage door. The family boat, which was on a trailer and being stored in the garage for the winter, served as a perfect trash compacter for a mass of boxes and junk that we probably didn’t need anyways.
I was in panic mode, and evidently so was my mother as she flew out the front door with eyes wide with worry. When she realized I wasn’t hurt, and that the damage to the car was minimal, she finally settled down. I, however, was still quite distraught. It wasn’t my mother that scared me. It was my ill-tempered father. And now my mother’s master plan was to take me to the place of his employment so that we could talk about what had happened.
I knew from the start that this would turn out badly. My mother tried to comfort me by saying that he wouldn’t be mad, and that he would understand that it was just an accident.
Oh, how she was wrong.
I refused to start the car for 3 years.