She marched to the front door and began pounding.
“Em!”
I took a sip of coffee.
She pounded again.
“Open the door!”
My daughter looked at me.
Normally, that would have been the moment I rushed to fix everything.
I would have opened the door apologizing before I had even decided whether I had done anything wrong.
Instead, I set down my mug.
“Stay in the kitchen,” I told my daughter gently.
Then I opened the door.
My sister was already talking before I had fully pulled it back.
“Where is my car?”
There it was.
My car.
Not the car you let me use.
Not the Corolla.
Not even the car.
My car.
Jason stood behind her with his arms crossed.
The smugness from the previous morning was gone.
My sister pointed toward the driveway.
“Did you move it?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In the garage.”
Her mouth fell open.
“You took my car?”
I looked directly at her.
“It was never yours.”
For several seconds, she simply stared at me.
Then she laughed once, but this laugh sounded different from the one she had given me after Jason spent $2,812.64.
That laugh had been dismissive.
This one was nervous.
“What are you talking about?” she demanded.
“You gave it to me.”
“I let you use it.”
“You said it was mine.”
“I handed you the keys.
I never transferred the title.”
Her eyes changed.
That was the moment she understood I wasn’t bluffing.
She looked toward the garage again.
“You can’t just take somebody’s car because you’re mad about Amazon.”
“It’s registered to me.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It matters quite a bit.”
Jason stepped forward.
“So you’re taking Mom’s car because of my birthday stuff?”
I looked at him.
“No.
I’m taking my car because both of you have confused my kindness with permission.”
His face tightened.
My sister immediately moved in front of him, not protectively so much as strategically, as though making Jason the center of the argument might force me to retreat.
“He’s thirteen, Em.”
“Yes.”
