The Fine Print

Today, I came across Vic’s car insurance document - just another piece of paper in a growing stack of reminders that he’s no longer here. Most of it was expected… until I got to the exclusions section.

There it was, written in black and white:
"Excluded drivers: Any household member not listed above, any person under 40 years old, and NT."

My name. Specifically.

Why did he have to write it like that?

Why not just leave it broad like the rest - “household members,” “under 40” - impersonal, detached? But he singled me out. Out of all the people in the world, it was my name he listed.

Was it because I used to drive that car? The one he gave me for my birthday back in 2016? Even though it was under his name, it was meant for me - a gift. A symbol of something, once. And then, after we separated, he took it back. Maybe that decision hurt more than I admitted. Maybe it hurt him too.

I don’t know if that line was written out of spite or caution, pain or pride. I just know it stung. Like a quiet little rejection that managed to outlive him.

It’s strange how grief finds its way into even the smallest details — an insurance clause, a name on a form. I wasn’t asking for the car. I’m not even sure I wanted it anymore. But seeing my name there, in that context, made me question everything again.

Did he still carry the hurt from our past? Was this his way of drawing a boundary - one last time?

I wish I could ask him.

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