I just wanted to do a nice thing. Before heading off on another work trip, I left my car keys with Mum. Why should she struggle with shopping bags when there was a perfectly serviced, reliable car sitting in the garage? But my worst fear came true—she handed the keys to my younger brother. And he… well, he crashed it. Not a total write-off, thank goodness, but the repair bill made my hair stand on end. Especially since the insurance wouldn’t even cover half.
I work in logistics, always dashing between regions—sometimes even abroad. For shorter trips, I prefer my own car: quicker, comfier, and, most importantly, reliable. I’ve always driven carefully. Eleven years behind the wheel, not a single accident my fault. Sure, I’ve been sideswiped by a few less-than-sober or distracted drivers, but overall? I’m cautious. I didn’t swap cars often, but I took care of them. Always bought second-hand—sensible economy. But last year, I thought, *Enough. I deserve a new one.* No more hand-me-downs, no dodgy resprays, no rolled-back mileages. Just mine.
I took out a loan, poured in all my savings, and bought a brand-new Ford. That new-car smell, pristine brakes, a sunroof—absolute bliss. I’d dreamed of it. But before I could even enjoy it properly, work trips piled up, and the car just sat there. Meanwhile, Mum—who does have a licence—started asking, *”Can I borrow it now and then? Just for errands?”* Fine by me. She’s careful, and well… she’s family.
I had one rule: *No keys for my brother.* My little brother is every driver’s worst nightmare. A speed demon. Loves overtaking, screeching starts, tailgating like it’s a sport. He’s had his licence revoked before. His last two cars ended up as scrap. I adore him, but lending him my car would be like handing a toddler a grenade. Mum nodded, swore up and down, *”No, no, he won’t even touch it.”*
Fast-forward a few months. I come home to find—*of course*—my car wrecked. Brother took it without asking. Actually, scratch that—*with* Mum’s blessing. She gave him the keys. I was livid. 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, but she forgot. Brother? Didn’t even check—just hopped in and sped off. Icy road, sharp bend, lost control. Smacked right into a lamppost.
Seeing the dented bumper, shattered headlight, and crumpled bonnet made my stomach drop. A *brand-new car*. Loan still unpaid. I’d barely had it a month, and now it was parked outside—neither roadworthy nor fully dead.
I lost it. Yes, I shouted. Loudly, sharply—but could you blame me? I’d *asked*. I’d *pleaded*. I’d *warned*. And here we were.
*”It’s just a car,”* Mum muttered, avoiding eye contact. *”Don’t make such a fuss. It’ll get fixed. At least no one was hurt. But if you raise your voice at me again, I won’t speak to you.”*
Brother? Textbook. Beat his chest, vowed to cover the repairs. *With what?* His salary’s a joke, and his debts could finance a small country. Meanwhile, Mum expects *me* to apologise. She’s the one upset. Not him, the lamppost magnet. Not her, the rule-breaker. *I’m* the villain.
So now I walk everywhere. And I can’t help thinking—is *anyone* in this family capable of admitting they messed up? Am I really the bad guy for being furious about losing the car I worked *years* to afford?
