Honestly, I never expected a beat-up old car to cause a full-blown family meltdown—but here we are.

It started when my older sister, Jessica, decided to “sell” me her ancient car. I say “sell” because it was more symbolic than anything—some small cash exchange to make it official. The car had been sitting in our parents’ garage for years, gathering dust and slowly rusting into oblivion. The tires were flat, the paint was faded and cracked, and the interior smelled like forgotten dreams and motor oil.

But to me? It had potential.

I’m 22, a car enthusiast, and stubbornly optimistic. I saw beyond the grime and into the possibility.

“There’s something there,” I told my girlfriend, Gabi, over fries at our favorite fast-food spot. “It just needs a little love—and a lot of elbow grease.”

She laughed, dipping a fry into ketchup. “You do what you have to, Dustin. Just don’t get your hopes up until Jess actually gives it to you.”

Jessica made a big deal out of the handoff, dangling the keys like she was passing down an heirloom.

“I loved this car,” she said with dramatic flair. “Don’t take this lightly.”

It sounded more like a threat than a sentiment.

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