But I knew cars. And more importantly, I needed one to get to university. So I took it as a project.
Over the next few months, I poured my weekends—and my savings—into that car. Five thousand dollars, to be exact. New paint, tires, interior, engine work—the whole transformation.
The first time I finally turned the key and it purred to life, I felt like I’d resurrected it. It wasn’t just transportation anymore; it was mine, something I built with my own hands. Then, one morning, as I was grabbing my backpack and heading out the door, she barged into my apartment without knocking.
Her face was red, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “I need the car back,” she snapped. “Today.”
I laughed, thinking she was joking.
She wasn’t. She crossed her arms. “My husband’s car broke down.
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. Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events.
Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance.
All images are for illustration purposes only.
