In hindsight, perhaps I should have known better. Before leaving for another business trip, I handed my mother the keys to my car, thinking it a kindness. Why should she struggle with shopping bags when a perfectly serviced motor sat idle in the garage? Yet my worst fear came to pass—she gave them to my younger brother. And he… well, he wrecked it. Not beyond repair, but the bill made my blood run cold, especially since the insurance wouldn’t cover half.
As a logistics manager, I’m constantly on the move, sometimes even abroad. For shorter trips, I prefer driving—quicker, more reliable, and entirely under my control. I’ve always been careful behind the wheel. Eleven years without a single accident of my own doing, though I’ve had a few brushes with less-sober motorists. I never splurged on cars, opting for sensible secondhand ones, scrimping where I could. But last year, I decided enough was enough. I’d earned a brand-new car—no hidden crashes, no rolled-back mileage, just mine.
I took out a loan, poured in my savings, and drove off in a gleaming new Mazda. That new-car scent, flawless brakes, the sunroof—I’d dreamed of it. But work kept me away, leaving it gathering dust. My mother, a careful driver herself, began asking, “Mind if I take it for errands—just to the shops or the doctor’s?” How could I refuse? She was family.
But I laid down one rule: no keys for my brother. He was every driver’s nightmare—speed, reckless overtakes, tailgating, a revoked licence under his belt. His last two cars had been scrapped. I loved him, but handing him my car was like giving a grenade to a toddler. Mum swore blind, “He won’t go near it.”
Months passed. I returned home to find my car wrecked. My brother had taken it—with Mum’s blessing, no less. I was livid. She knew how I felt. Worse still, he’d crashed it because he couldn’t be bothered to swap the summer tyres for winter ones. I’d asked Mum to handle it before I left. She forgot. He didn’t check—just revved off. On black ice, mid-bend, he lost control and ploughed into a lamppost.
Seeing the dented bonnet, shattered headlight, and twisted frame, my chest tightened. My new car. The loan still unpaid. I’d barely driven it a month, and now it sat outside, neither here nor there.
I snapped. I shouted. Loudly, sharply—but wasn’t I entitled? I’d begged. I’d warned. And this was the result.
“It’s just a car,” Mum muttered, avoiding my eyes. “Don’t fuss. It’ll mend. No one was hurt. But raise your voice at me again, and I won’t speak to you.”
My brother, ever the charmer, thumped his chest, vowing to cover the repairs. With what? His wages were a pittance, his debts piled high. Meanwhile, Mum expects my apology. She’s the one offended. Not him, the reckless fool, not her, the promise-breaker. No, I’m the one at fault.
Now I walk everywhere, wondering: is there no one in my family who’ll own up? Must I also bear the blame for losing the car I worked years to buy?
