To be honest, I never imagined a beat-up old automobile would become the center of family drama, but here we are.

It all began when my older sister, Jessica, offered to “gift” me her old automobile. Well, “gift” may be stretching it a little considering she sold it to me for a symbolic sum.

The car was in horrible condition. I mean, the tires were flat, there was rust beneath the hood, and the paint was almost flaking. It had been languishing in our parents’ garage for years, collecting layers of dust.

But, as a 22-year-old automobile aficionado, I saw opportunity where others saw a junkyard candidate.

“There’s something there, Gabi,” I informed my girlfriend as we sat at a fast-food restaurant. “I know it doesn’t look like a wonderful opportunity, but it is. “I can do a lot with the car.”

“Fine, Dustin,” she giggled as she ate her fries. “You do whatever you have to. But don’t get your hopes up until Jessica actually hands it to you.”

Jessica made a big show of handing me the keys. She made it appear that she was doing me a tremendous favor.

“Don’t take this lightly, Dustin,” she advised. “I loved this car.”

Her comments sounded like notifications. To be fair, she probably assumed I’d scrap it for parts and let it decay. But I had different plans.

I invested all of my savings into that car, updating whatever I could. Weekends were spent crouched over the automobile, listening to Gabi tell stories about her university classmates and instructors.

“I do think that Ben is going to get caught for stealing,” she told me. “Like, he practically copied the entire project off the internet. I am confident they will fail him for it.”

I chuckled while working.

I restored the interior, repainted the outside, installed new tires and wheels, and even added a sound system. Overall, I believe I spent roughly $5,000 and countless hours bringing the automobile back to life.

Then, one morning, as I was preparing to leave for university, Jessica barged into the house, looking agitated. Gabi was about to exit the bathroom when she noticed Jessica running to our bedroom, clutching her towel firmly.

“Dustin, I need to take the car back,” she told me. “Where are the keys?” “I need it right now.”

I was stunned.

“What?” I exclaimed.

“Now!” she said, glancing about the living room as if attempting to summon the keys.

Jessica, what are you talking about? “You sold me that car,” I responded, trying to remain calm. “It is not yours anymore. So, you don’t get to make any choices.”

“Well, I never officially transferred the documents,” she admitted, waving her hands dismissively. “And, anyhow, Tom’s automobile broke down, so we need another vehicle. So I’m taking it back.

I could not believe my ears. Her husband, Tom, was infamous for reckless driving and automobile destruction. It was his ‘thing.’ In the six years Tom and Jessica had been married, he had gone through four cars.

The thought of him driving my restored car was infuriating. What captivated me was Jessica’s chutzpah. The car was mine. Jessica had no legal basis for it. I had purchased and paid for it. Even if we hadn’t finalized the papers, it needed to stand.

Right?