You know that moment when life decides to kick you square in the teeth after you’re already down? That’s exactly where I was. And my conniving neighbor thought she could take advantage of it.
Three years ago, my world collapsed when my husband Dan died in a horrible wreck on Highway 52. In an instant, I went from planning a family vacation to standing alone with two kids and a mountain of bills I couldn’t see over. Since then, I’ve worked every shift I could get—slamming pancakes at Mel’s Diner by day, scrubbing office floors by night, while my sweet mom watched Dora and Ethan. We were scraping by, barely.
Then came last Tuesday—the day my ancient minivan finally died. I was sitting in the grocery store parking lot when it coughed its last breath. Black smoke poured out. Metal grinding like nails on a chalkboard. Dead.
I just sat there, staring at the wheel, fighting back tears. This wasn’t just a car—it was one more thing I couldn’t afford to fix.
That’s when Cheryl swooped in.
Cheryl is one of those people who never has a hair out of place. She breezed across the lot in heels that cost more than my rent, calling out, “April, honey! Trouble?”
I wiped my eyes. “Yeah, looks like it.”
She smiled, tilting her head in that fake-sweet way she does. “You know what? This might just be your lucky day! My nephew’s Toyota has been sitting in my garage for months. Barely used.”
I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up, but when you’re desperate, you cling to whatever lifeline shows up.
“How much?”
“Well,” she said, “normally I’d ask three grand, but since we’re neighbors—$2,500. Practically a gift.”
I should’ve known something was off when she insisted we meet at 7 a.m. the next day to seal the deal. Who sells cars at sunrise? Someone trying to hide something, that’s who.
The Toyota looked fine. Started right up. The radio worked, the AC blew cold, and the brakes didn’t scream. I asked the right questions: “Any issues I should know about?”
She laughed. “Honey, would I sell you a lemon? It’s practically new. Just sitting around.”
I handed over my hard-earned $2,500—money I’d scraped together from overtime shifts, meant for school supplies and soccer cleats.
And for exactly 24 hours, I thought maybe—just maybe—I’d caught a break.
The very next day, I found myself stranded on Clover Hill. Smoke billowed from under the hood while Dora cried in her car seat. My hands were shaking as I called for a tow truck. I managed to get the kids dropped off before limping into Murphy’s Auto, praying it was something minor.
Frank, the mechanic, opened the hood, frowned, and let out a whistle.Read More Below
