My sister sold me her old, beat-up car for next to nothing. The tires were flat, rust ate through the hood, and the interior smelled like it had been abandoned for years. She handed over the keys with exaggerated pride, as if she were giving me a treasure instead of a near-junk heap.
But I knew cars, and I needed one to get to university. I took it as a challenge. Over the next few months, I spent nearly every weekend fixing it, pouring in over $5,000 for new tires, fresh paint, engine repairs, and a thorough interior cleanup. When I finally turned the key and heard it run smoothly, it felt like I’d resurrected it myself. This car was no longer just a vehicle—it was my achievement.
Then one morning, my sister barged into my apartment without knocking. “I need the car back,” she demanded. “My husband’s car broke down, and technically it’s still mine. I never transferred the title.”
I was stunned. She had sold it to me, watched me spend thousands restoring it, and now she wanted it back? My parents sided with her, telling me to “just give it up.”
I didn’t need the police. I had a better idea. I gathered all the receipts and invoices for the repairs—over $5,000 in total—and handed them to her.
“You can have the car,” I said calmly, “if you reimburse me for the restoration costs.”
Her jaw dropped. “I’m not paying that!”
I shrugged. “Then it stays with me.”
In the end, her husband fixed his own car, and mine? It still runs flawlessly, taking me to university every day—and it’s unquestionably mine.