“Want to see the inside?”
He didn’t take them.
“Not really.”
Then he walked into the house.
At the time, I told myself he was having a bad day.
I was used to explaining away his moods.
For a few weeks, everything seemed normal.
I drove the Mustang to work, cleaned it on Sunday afternoons, and learned more about its maintenance.
Mrs. Keller laughed when I arrived at the diner one morning.
“Look at you, Madison. All those dishes finally turned into something.”
I grinned.
“Every single one.”
She walked around the car, studying the scratches.
“Take care of it.”
“I will.”
“And don’t let anyone convince you that hard work means you owe them the reward.”
I thought she was simply offering general advice.
I didn’t realize how soon I’d need it.
Brandon’s old sedan began having trouble that summer.
It had been unreliable for years, partly because he postponed maintenance whenever something more enjoyable came along.
At twenty-four, he had moved through several jobs and was currently between positions.
Dad said Brandon was still finding the right opportunity.
Mom said he needed encouragement.
I said very little.
I’d learned that questioning Brandon’s choices usually ended with me being accused of lacking compassion.
One Saturday morning, I was making coffee when Brandon entered the kitchen.
He leaned against the counter and nodded toward the driveway.
“You don’t need that Mustang.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“You heard me. You don’t need a car like that.”
I frowned.
“I bought it because I wanted it.”
“Well, I need something reliable. My sedan’s barely running.”
I waited for him to explain what he expected.
Then he said it.
“Give me the Mustang.”
For a moment, I thought he was joking.
I laughed.
“Very funny.”
He didn’t smile.
“I’m serious.”
I set down my mug.
“Brandon, I paid for that car.”
“And?”
“And it’s mine.”
He rolled his eyes.
“You’re eighteen. You live at home. You can save up for another one.”
I stared at him.
It was as though three years of working late shifts meant nothing because he’d decided his need was more important.
“I need transportation too.”
“You can drive Mom’s car.”
“Mom uses her car for work.”
“Then figure something out.”
That phrase again.
The answer my parents had given me for years.
Only now Brandon was using it to explain why I should surrender something I’d worked for.
Dad entered the kitchen carrying his newspaper.
“What’s going on?”
Brandon turned toward him immediately.
“I told Madison I need the Mustang until I get things sorted out.”
Dad looked at me.
“That seems reasonable.”
I blinked.
“Reasonable?”
“Your brother needs transportation to work.”
“He isn’t working right now.”
“He’s looking.”
“I’ve offered to help him find an affordable used car. I can even drive him to dealerships.”
Dad folded his newspaper.
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
His expression tightened.
“Your brother has responsibilities.”
“So do I.”
“You’re young. You don’t understand how difficult life gets.”
I felt my face grow warm.
“I understand working for something and paying for it.”
Brandon gave a short laugh.
“Here we go.”
Dad looked at him, then back at me.
“Madison, don’t make everything about yourself.”
I could hear Mom moving dishes near the sink.
I looked at her.
She kept her eyes on the counter.
I wanted her to say something.
Anything.
Instead, she continued drying a plate.
I turned back to Dad.
“I’m not asking Brandon to give me something. I’m asking you not to take something I’ve earned.”
His face hardened.
“Nobody is taking anything. I’m telling you to help your brother.”
“By giving him my car?”
“Yes.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
The word seemed to surprise everyone.
Dad stood.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not giving Brandon the Mustang.”
He stared at me for several seconds.
Then he pointed toward the hallway.
“If you can’t do one simple thing for this family, you can get out of my house.”
The kitchen fell silent.
I looked at him.
“Do you mean that?”
His jaw tightened.
“You heard me.”
I waited for him to soften.
He didn’t.
Brandon leaned back against the counter, watching with an expression I couldn’t quite understand.
Mom finally looked up.
“Raymond,” she said softly.
Dad didn’t turn toward her.
“She wants to act like she’s completely independent. Fine. Let her.”
My throat tightened.
I looked at Mom one more time.