Honestly, I never expected a beat-up old car to cause a full-blown family meltdown—but here we are. It started when my older sister, Jessica, decided to “sell” me her ancient car. I say “sell” because it was more symbolic than anything—some small cash exchange to make it official. The car had been sitting in our parents’
garage for years, gathering dust and slowly rusting into oblivion. The tires were flat, the paint was faded and cracked, and the interior smelled like forgotten dreams and motor oil. But to me? It had potential. I’m 22, a car enthusiast, and stubbornly optimistic. I saw beyond the grime and into the possibility.
