It was meant to be a kindness. Before heading off on another business trip, I left my car keys with Mum. Why should she struggle with shopping bags when there’s a perfectly serviced hatchback sitting in the drive? But my worst fear came true—she handed the keys to my younger brother. And he… he wrecked it. Not beyond repair, but the garage bill made my hair stand on end, especially since the insurance won’t even cover half.
I’m a logistics manager, always on the road—sometimes even abroad. For short trips, I prefer my own car: quicker, more comfortable, and above all, reliable. I’ve always driven carefully. Eleven years behind the wheel, not a single accident my fault. Sure, I’ve been hit by the odd drunk or distracted driver, but overall, I’m cautious. I don’t swap cars often, but when I do, I look after them. Always bought used, always saved. Last year, though, I thought: enough. I deserved a new one. Not someone else’s wreck, not a resprayed write-off with a dodgy mileage—my own.
I took out a loan, poured in my savings, and bought a brand-new Ford. That new-car smell, flawless brakes, a sunroof—I’d dreamed of it. But before I could enjoy it properly, work trips piled up, leaving it idle. Meanwhile, Mum—who has a licence—started asking, “Can I borrow it now and then? Just for the shops or the doctor’s.” I didn’t mind. She drives carefully, and she’s family.
I had one rule: no keys for my brother. He’s every driver’s nightmare—a speed demon who loves overtaking, sharp accelerations, and tailgating. He’s had his licence revoked before. His last two cars were scrapped. I love him, but handing him my car is like giving a toddler a grenade. Mum nodded, swore: “He won’t go near it.”
Months passed. I came home to find my car smashed. 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 to sort it before I left. She forgot. Brother didn’t check—just hopped in and drove. Hit black ice on a bend, lost control, ploughed into a lamppost.
Seeing the dented wing, shattered headlight, and crumpled bonnet made my chest tighten. A new car. Loan still unpaid. I’d barely driven it a month, and now it’s sat on the drive—neither alive nor dead.
I lost it. I shouted. Loud, yes. Harsh, yes. But didn’t I have the right? I’d begged. I’d warned. And this was the result.
“It’s just a car,” Mum muttered, avoiding my eyes. “Don’t take on so. It’ll get fixed. At least no one was hurt. And if you raise your voice at me again, I won’t speak to you at all.”
Brother, true to form, puffed his chest, swore he’d cover the repairs. With what? His wages are a joke, his debts could last a lifetime. Meanwhile, Mum expects an apology. She’s the one offended—not him, who wrote off the car, not her, who broke her word. I’m the one who’s supposed to say sorry.
Now I’m walking everywhere, wondering: is no one in my family capable of admitting they’re wrong? Am I really the villain here, left without the car I worked years to own?
