I never expected to end up in a neighborhood where every driveway boasted a glossy import car and the landscaping looked like it belonged on the cover of a home magazine. But thanks to my company’s corporate housing program, there I was—with my late dad’s beat-up 1989 sedan parked defiantly in front of my new, pristine house.
That car is more than just metal and wheels to me. Dad’s laughter, his lessons, and all the memories we shared are tied up in every dent and scratch. It’s the last tangible piece of him I have, and I’m determined to keep it running no matter what.
One crisp autumn morning, I was outside washing the sedan when I heard expensive loafers crunching leaves behind me. I looked up to see my neighbor Tom, the definition of “country club chic,” staring at my car like it was a crime scene.
“Excuse me,” he said, voice dripping with disapproval.
“You can call me Lila,” I replied, continuing to scrub.
He waved a hand at my car. “This…thing is lowering property values and destroying the neighborhood’s aesthetic,” he declared.
I set down the sponge. “It’s my car, Tom, and it’s not going anywhere.”
His jaw tightened. “If you don’t get rid of it, I’ll make you regret it,” he warned. Then, with a sniff, he turned on his heel and walked away.
I tried to laugh it off. But a week later, I woke up to find my car covered in a thick shell of ice, so heavy it took me hours to chip free. I looked up in time to see Tom sipping coffee on his porch, wearing the smuggest grin I’d ever seen.
“Careful,” he called out sarcastically, “Mother Nature’s got a sense of humor.”
Fuming, I remembered Dad’s favorite saying: “The best revenge is living well. Keep your hands clean, kiddo.” So I swallowed my anger. Tom would get what was coming to him—if not from me, then maybe from the universe.
