Advice received is not reliance admitted

I am writing down how I decided to take the bus this morning because the version in the notebook is too clean.

The empty line I left yesterday was still there. I had meant it for the answer I owe her. This morning I drew a line beneath it without filling it and started today's list below.

That is not the same as crossing it out. It is also not an answer.

I wrote: leave early, test the car, take the bus if necessary.

The car started on the second try. On the first, the engine turned but did not catch. On the second, it caught and kept running. I could go. Instead I sat with both hands on the wheel and waited for the engine to make the decision for me.

It kept running.

I put the notebook on the passenger seat and made two columns. Driving would recover the time I had spent testing the car. Taking the bus would mean leaving the car where I could deal with it later, but the next bus was close enough that I could still get where I needed to go.

The car column had the advantage of already being on.

My father called while I was looking at the two columns. I nearly let it ring. I did not want to turn off the engine, and I did not want to explain why I was sitting in a running car instead of going anywhere.

I answered.

He asked whether the car was still giving me trouble. I said it had started.

“That isn't what I asked.”

So I told him about the first try and that I did not know whether it would start again after work.

He said, “Then take the bus. Look at the car when you don't need it to get you anywhere.”

I told him the bus was already one of my options.

“Good,” he said. “Use it.”

This was advice, technically. It did not add a new option. It did not tell me anything about the engine. It only made one column sound like a choice and the other sound like a wager.

I turned off the car and caught the bus.

The trip took longer than driving would have if the car had behaved. The bus arrived. I arrived. Nothing else had to start for me to get home again.

When I returned, I tried the car once more. The engine turned and did not catch. I stopped there.

In the notebook I wrote:

Tested car.

Compared options.

Took bus.

Arrange inspection.

Every line is true. My father's call is missing, but he did not test the car or check the bus. He said aloud what the columns already showed.

I am not sure that counts as relying on someone. If I had ignored him, I might still have taken the bus.

Before we hung up, he said, “You call next time.”

He said it lightly. I told him I would.

I added call him before he calls me beneath the car inspection. I have left the box open. Above today's list, the line for her is still empty.

The bus got me where I needed to go. The car stayed put. If I record only the outcome, I handled the day myself.

My father will probably call again if I do nothing. That is part of why doing nothing can feel like a plan.