I only meant to do a kind thing. When I left for another business trip, I handed my car keys to Mum. Why should she struggle, carrying shopping bags by hand, when there’s a perfectly serviced, reliable foreign car sitting in the garage? But my worst fear came true. She gave the keys to my younger brother. And he… he crashed it. Not a total write-off, of course—but the repair costs made my hair stand on end. Especially since the insurance won’t even cover half.
I work in logistics, constantly travelling across regions. Sometimes even abroad. For shorter distances, I prefer driving my own car—faster, more convenient, and above all, dependable. I’ve always been a careful driver. Eleven years behind the wheel, and not a single accident my fault. Sure, a couple of drunk or distracted drivers have rear-ended me. But overall? I’ve been cautious. I didn’t swap cars often, but I maintained them meticulously. All second-hand, to save money. Last year, I decided enough was enough. I deserved a brand-new car. Not someone else’s wreck, not resprayed after a crash, not with tampered mileage—mine.
I took out a loan, emptied my savings, and bought a shiny new Mazda. That new-car smell, flawless brakes, a panoramic sunroof. I dreamed about it. But before I could even enjoy it properly, work trips piled up, and the car sat idle. Meanwhile, Mum, who has a license, started asking, “Can I borrow it now and then—for the shops, the doctor’s?” I didn’t mind. She drives carefully, and she’s family.
I laid down one rule: no keys for my brother. My younger brother is every driver’s nightmare. A speed demon. Loves overtaking, sudden accelerations, tailgating. Lost his license before. His last two cars ended up as scrap. I love him, but handing him my car? Like giving a grenade to a toddler. Mum nodded, swore, “No, no, he won’t even come near it.”
Months passed. I came home—and found out: the car’s wrecked. Brother took it without asking. No, worse—with Mum’s permission. She gave him the keys. I was furious. First, she knew how I felt. Second, he crashed because he couldn’t be bothered to swap the summer tyres for winter ones. I’d asked Mum before leaving—she forgot. He didn’t check—just hopped in and drove. On an icy road, missed a turn, lost control. Slammed into a lamppost.
When I saw the dent, shattered headlight, and crumpled bonnet, my chest tightened. A brand-new car. Loan still unpaid. I hadn’t even driven it a full month, and now it’s sitting outside—neither dead nor alive.
I snapped. I shouted. Loud, yes. Harsh, yes. But didn’t I have the right? I asked. I begged. I warned. And this is the result.
“It’s just a car,” Mum muttered, avoiding my eyes. “Stop overreacting. It’ll get fixed. At least no one’s hurt. And if you raise your voice at me again, I won’t speak to you at all.”
Brother, true to form, puffed out his chest, swore he’d pay for repairs. With what? His salary’s a joke, his debts could last two lifetimes. Meanwhile, Mum expects an apology from me. She’s the one hurt. Not him, who smashed into a post, not her, who broke her word. I’m the one who should apologise.
So now I walk everywhere. And I wonder—is there anyone in my family who can just admit they’re wrong? Am I really the villain for losing the car I worked years to afford?
