Ava came home that evening carrying an iced coffee.
Fast-food wrappers littered the passenger seat.
The fuel gauge sat below half.
“Cute car,” she said, tossing the keys onto the counter.
“My car.”
She smiled.
“Sure.”
Two days later, the keys vanished again.
Then again.
By the end of the week, Ava no longer bothered asking.
When I confronted Mom, she kept folding laundry without looking at me.
“It makes more sense for Ava to use it right now.”
“How?”
“She’s networking.”
“I commute forty minutes.”
“She needs it for her image, Amelia.”
I laughed because the alternative was screaming.
“Her image?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
That evening, Ava posted a photo online.
She leaned against the SUV’s driver-side door wearing sunglasses.
The caption read:
**NEW WHIP. HARD WORK PAYS OFF.**
I stared at the post until something inside me became very still.
For most of my life, I had reacted exactly as my family expected.
