I’m Caleb, 22, and a junky old car became my family’s battleground. My sister, Tara, sold me her rusty sedan for next to nothing, acting like she was my hero. The car was a wreck—bald tires, faded paint, and rust creeping everywhere, parked in our parents’ garage forever. But I’m a car nut, and I saw a masterpiece. “This thing’s got life,” I told my girlfriend, Sophie, over coffee. She chuckled, “If Tara doesn’t back out.”
Tara gave me the keys like it was a ceremony. “I loved this car,” she said, her tone heavy. I bet she thought I’d scrap it, but I poured $5,000 into it, fixing the interior, repainting, adding slick wheels, and a dope sound system. Sophie hung out, ranting about her coworkers while I worked. One day, as I headed to class, Tara stormed in, freaking out Sophie, who was just out of the shower. “I need the car,” Tara said. I gaped. “You sold it.”
“No paperwork, and my husband’s car died,” she snapped. Her husband, Mike, trashed every car he drove. Our parents, with her, backed her up. “She has kids,” Mom said. I forced a grin. “Take it.” Sophie later said, “Check the GPS and camera.” The video floored me—Tara sped around, scheming with Mike to sell the car for a kid’s playset. I wasn’t letting her scam me.
I got a lawyer, showed my receipts and footage, and sent Tara a letter demanding the title or I’d sue. She burst in, letter in hand, raging. “What’s this, Caleb?” she yelled. “Sign it over, or I expose your plan,” I said calmly. She signed, including a no-claims deal, muttering, “A lawyer, really?” “You forced it,” I said. The car’s mine, a badge of standing tall. Sophie grinned over burritos, “Happy?” I nodded. “Tara knows she can’t push me around.” That car’s my reminder to own my worth.
