My first instinct was to call the police, but even I knew how that would go. Instead, something better hit me—an idea so perfectly satisfying that I almost smiled.
I went to the drawer where I kept every receipt, invoice, and part order associated with that car—organized, dated, and totaling just over $5,000. Then I walked into the living room, where my sister was still waiting impatiently, tapping her foot.
“You can have the car back,” I said calmly, handing her a neatly stapled packet. “Just sign here acknowledging that you’re reimbursing me for all the restoration work.”
Her eyes nearly popped out of her head.
“What? I’m not paying you!”
I shrugged. “Then you’re not getting the car. Simple.”
Her husband ended up fixing his own car. And mine? It still carries me to university every morning—quiet, reliable, and entirely mine.
