I just wanted to do something kind. When I left for another work trip, I handed my car keys to Mum. Why should she struggle, lugging shopping bags by hand, when there’s a perfectly serviced 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 wreck, of course—but the repair bill made my hair stand on end. Especially since the insurance won’t even cover half.
I’m a logistics manager, often travelling between regions. Sometimes even abroad. For shorter trips, I prefer my own car—faster, more convenient, and most importantly, reliable. I’ve always driven carefully. Eleven years behind the wheel, not a single accident my fault. Sure, a couple of not-so-sober or distracted drivers have hit me. But overall? I’ve been cautious. I didn’t change cars often, but I took care of them. Always bought used, saved money. Last year, I decided enough was enough. I deserved a new car—not someone else’s, not repainted after a crash, not with the mileage rolled back. Mine.
I took out a loan, put in all my savings, and bought a brand-new Mazda. That new-car smell, perfect brakes, a sunroof. I dreamed about it. But before I could properly enjoy it, work trips piled up, leaving the car parked. Meanwhile, Mum, who also has a licence, started asking, “Can I use it sometimes—for the shops, the doctor’s?” I didn’t object. She drives carefully, and she’s family.
I had one condition: no keys for my brother. My little brother is every driver’s worst nightmare. A speed demon. Loves overtaking, sudden starts, tailgating. He’s had his licence revoked. His last two cars ended up as scrap metal. I love him, but trusting him with my car was like giving a grenade to a toddler. Mum nodded, swore: “No, no, he won’t go near it.”
A few months later, I come home—and find out the car’s wrecked. Brother took it without permission. Worse—with Mum’s blessing. She gave him the keys. I was furious. First, she knew how I felt. Second, he crashed because he couldn’t even be bothered to switch from summer tyres to winter ones. I’d asked Mum to do it before I left. She forgot. Brother didn’t think—just hopped in and drove. On an icy road, around a bend, lost control. Smashed into a lamppost.
When I saw the dent, the shattered headlight, the crumpled bonnet, my chest tightened. A new car. The loan’s not even paid off. I’d barely driven it a month, and now it’s outside—neither here nor there.
I snapped. I shouted. Loudly, harshly, but did I not have the right? I asked. I begged. I warned. And this is the result.
“It’s just a car,” Mum muttered, avoiding my eyes. “Don’t make such a fuss. It’ll get fixed. No one got hurt. But if you raise your voice at me again, I won’t speak to you.”
Brother, true to form, pounds his chest, promising to pay for repairs. With what? His wages are laughable, his debts stretch a lifetime ahead. And Mum expects an apology from me. She’s the one upset. Not him, who smashed into a lamppost. Not her, who broke her word. No—I should apologise.
Now I walk everywhere. And I wonder—is no one in my family capable of owning up? Am I really the guilty one for losing the car I worked years to afford?
