Richard’s words pierced my mind like burning needles. Fifteen years of marriage, and only now did I see who he really was. “A useless fool.” That’s what he called me.

His pupils widened like a predator spotting its prey, then narrowed in disappointment and rage when he realized all I got was an old garage. “Your sister got an apartment in New York! And what did you get?

A dump! I always knew you were a loser, Victoria, but this… this is pathetic.”

I stood in the middle of our kitchen, clutching the ownership certificate. “Richard, Grandpa didn’t have to leave us anything,” I tried to object, my voice trembling.

“Shut up! I’ve put up with you for fifteen years, waiting for you to bring something to this family. And what do you bring?

A garage? That’s it. Get out of my house.”

“Your house?

We bought it together.”

He laughed, a cold, awful sound. “Are you serious? Your little librarian salary?

Those pathetic pennies barely covered the utilities. I paid for this house. It’s mine.

Now pack your things and get out.”

He slammed his fist on the table, shattering a glass. “You have thirty minutes,” he said, storming out. Our wedding photo fell from the wall, the glass cracking right across his smile.

How fitting. I packed my things mechanically. Fifteen years of my life, given to this man who now stood in the doorway, watching me with contempt.

“Where are you going to go?” he asked, not out of concern, but with sadistic curiosity. My parents were gone. My sister, Julia, had never really liked him, and after the inheritance, she wouldn’t want to see me.

Friends? Over the years, Richard had cut me off from everyone. “Leave the keys on the table,” he said as I closed my suitcase.

I placed the key to the house I had filled with warmth, the house that was never really mine, on the coffee table. He looked right through me as if I didn’t exist. I walked outside.

It was late October, and a light drizzle was falling. I had a few hundred dollars to my name. A hotel would cover one or two nights at most.

Then what? And suddenly, it hit me. The garage.

The old, crumbling garage Grandpa left me. Maybe I could at least spend the night there. The trip took almost two hours by bus.

By the time I arrived, it was dark. The industrial area looked abandoned and eerie. Finally, I found it: Garage #123.

The door was thick with rust, the lock so corroded it seemed welded shut. I struggled with the old, heavy key the notary had given me. It wouldn’t budge.

Despair crashed over me. Was I really going to end up on the street? As if in response, the lock suddenly clicked and turned.

The doors creaked open, and I saw it. Lit by my phone’s flashlight, something metallic gleamed under an old tarp. I tugged at the edge, and the tarp slid off, revealing what lay hidden underneath.

It was a car. But not just any car. It was a black 1950s Ford Thunderbird, perfectly preserved.

I didn’t know much about vintage cars, but even I understood this was a classic, a car worth a fortune. “This can’t be real,” I whispered. My grandfather used to tell me about his first car, a black Thunderbird he claimed he’d sold when my dad was born.