I wanted to do something kind. Before leaving for another work trip, I handed my car keys to my mum. Why should she struggle, carrying shopping bags by hand, when there was a perfectly serviced, reliable 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, but the repairs would cost so much it made my hair stand on end—especially since the insurance wouldn’t even cover half.
I’m a logistics manager, constantly travelling across the country, sometimes even abroad. For short distances, I prefer driving my own car—it’s quicker, more convenient, and above all, reliable. I’ve always been a careful driver. In eleven years behind the wheel, never once an accident my fault. Sure, a few times other drivers, not entirely sober or attentive, bumped into me. But overall, I’ve always been cautious. I didn’t change cars often, but I took good care of them. They were always second-hand, a way to save money. Last year, though, I decided enough was enough. I deserved a brand-new car. Not one that’d been in a crash, repainted, or with the mileage tampered—my own.
I took out a loan, put in all my savings, and bought a shiny new Ford. That new-car smell, flawless brakes, a panoramic sunroof. I’d dreamt of it. But hardly had I begun enjoying it before work trips piled up, leaving the car unused. Meanwhile, my mum, who also has a licence, started asking, *”Can I borrow it sometimes—just for the shops or the doctor’s?”* I didn’t mind. She’s careful, and after all, she’s family.
I laid down one rule: absolutely no keys for my brother. My little brother is every driver’s nightmare. A reckless speedster, obsessed with overtaking, sharp accelerations, tailgating. He’s had his licence revoked before. His last two cars ended up as scrap metal. I love him, but trusting him with my car would be like handing a toddler a grenade. Mum nodded, swore, *”No, no, he won’t even get near it.”*
A few months later, I came home—only to find the car wrecked. My brother had taken it without permission. No, worse: with Mum’s blessing. She gave him the keys. I was furious. First, she knew exactly how I felt about this. Second, he crashed because he couldn’t be bothered to change the summer tyres to winter ones. I hadn’t had time before leaving—I’d asked Mum to handle it. She forgot. And my brother didn’t think twice—just hopped in and drove. On an icy road, mid-turn, he lost control and ploughed into a lamppost.
When I saw the dent, shattered headlight, and twisted bonnet, my heart sank. A brand-new car. Loan still unpaid. I hadn’t even driven it a month, and now it sat outside the house—neither alive nor dead.
I snapped. I shouted. Loudly, harshly—but didn’t I have the right? I’d asked. I’d pleaded. I’d warned. And here we were.
*”It’s just a car,”* Mum muttered, avoiding my eyes. *”Don’t take it so hard. It’ll be fixed. At least no one was hurt. But if you raise your voice at me again, I won’t speak to you.”*
My brother, true to form, puffed his chest and promised to pay for the repairs. With what? His wages are pitiful, his debts already stretch years ahead. And now Mum expects an apology from *me*. She’s the one upset. Not him, the one who smashed into a post. Not her, the one who broke her word. *I’m* supposed to say sorry.
Meanwhile, I walk everywhere—wondering, is there really no one in my family who can admit they’re wrong? Am I now the villain, left without the car I worked years to afford?
Sometimes, kindness is met with carelessness—but holding onto anger only weighs you down more than the loss itself.
