I’m Lyra, and for as long as I can remember, “being the bigger person” in my family really meant one thing: let my cousin Bryn get her way. That was the unspoken rule passed down from our mothers—who are sisters—and it meant that I was expected to bend over backwards to keep Bryn happy.
We weren’t just cousins; we were practically raised as sisters. Her house was just a few streets away, and we spent nearly every day together growing up. Our moms traded off babysitting duties, we shared clothes, toys, even a bedroom sometimes. But over time, sharing turned into Bryn simply taking whatever she wanted.
She borrowed my favorite sweater once and brought it back stained. She destroyed the expensive makeup kit I’d saved up for, using it like it was finger paint. My headphones ended up broken on her nightstand. Whenever I got upset, my Aunt Faye would brush it off with, “She’s younger than you, Lyra. Be the mature one. Just let it go.”
And I did, for years. I let her take things, break them, and walk away without apology, because starting a fight wasn’t worth the family drama.
But everything changed when I bought my first car. It wasn’t fancy, but it was mine—leased in my name, paid for with the money I earned working two jobs. Every paycheck I handed over was a step closer to owning it outright. I was proud of it, and I promised myself from the start: no one else drives this car.
A few days before Bryn’s 18th birthday, she texted me out of the blue, not even asking, but announcing:
“Hey Lyra, I’m borrowing your car this weekend. It’s my birthday! Try not to say no, girl!”
I stared at the message in disbelief. She didn’t have much driving experience, and I knew she wouldn’t treat it with care. So I replied firmly but politely:
“Sorry, Bryn. I need the car for work, and I don’t lend it out.”
She blew up. Accused me of ruining her life, of being selfish, of embarrassing her. Normally I would’ve tried to smooth things over, but this time I held my ground.
On Saturday morning, I woke up to find my car covered in raw eggs and toilet paper. The yolks were already hardening in the sun, and it was a disgusting mess. We checked the doorbell camera and there she was—Bryn—laughing with her friends, wearing a birthday sash, and hurling eggs at my car like it was a game. One of her friends even filmed the whole thing.
I called her, furious, but she acted like it was nothing. Said I “deserved it” for not letting her borrow the car. Aunt Faye dismissed it too, saying, “It’s just a car, Lyra. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
But it was a big deal. The damage wasn’t just cosmetic. The body shop told me the eggs had eaten into the paint, and repairs would cost around $2,500. I emailed the bill to Aunt Faye and Uncle Wade, offering to let Bryn work it off instead of paying, but they refused. Told me to “grow up” and “let it go.”
That’s when something inside me shifted. I realized I’d been letting Bryn get away with this kind of behavior for years, always told to forgive her because she was younger, or it wasn’t worth the trouble. But this time, she’d gone too far.
So I went to the police. I filed a report, handed over the video footage, the repair bill, and our text messages. It wasn’t about revenge—it was about holding her accountable.
The fallout was immediate. My phone lit up with angry messages from family members calling me dramatic and petty. But I didn’t back down. I was done sacrificing my peace just to keep others comfortable.
My mom, who’d always urged me to keep the peace, finally saw it from my side. She admitted she’d let things slide for too long, and supported me in pressing charges.
I don’t know what will happen next, but for the first time in years, I feel like I’m standing up for myself. Bryn might’ve thought it was just a prank, but actions have consequences. And I’m not letting her walk away from this one.