Lyra’s refusal to lend her expensive car to her greedy cousin sparked more than petty retaliation. A wake-up call. Lyra had to decide whether to keep the peace or speak up for herself due to family pressure, broken rules, and harm. Once drawn, certain lines change everything.

I’m Lyra, and I’ve always been told to be better. In our household, that expression means, “Give Bryn what she wants so she doesn’t throw a fit.”

Our mothers are sisters, therefore Bryn is much more than a cousin. We were raised as siblings, not relatives. Since her family lived five streets away, we always visited each other.

Mom watched her after school, and Aunt Faye did when mom worked. I lost track of times we shared clothing, snacks, even a bedroom.

However, “sharing” became “Bryn takes whatever she wants.”

She “borrowed” my beautiful sweater and returned it ketchup-stained. If I saved for a makeup kit, she used it as finger paint and dropped it.

After a week, my headphones were on her bedside, damaged and buzzing in one ear. Aunt Faye always shrugged.

She’s younger than Lyra. Share, she said.

I did every time. Peace was simpler than fighting.

I was pleased of signing the lease for my first automobile, which had more mileage than I desired and a payment plan that made paydays tight. This touched me.

Since it was lease-to-own, every payment seemed like a step toward ownership.

No one bought it for me. No co-signer either. Weekend catering shifts supplemented my weekday receptionist job. But every hour I stood was one step closer to my name in the papers.

“I’ll be so careful with you,” I promised the automobile as I took my first driving seat. “I’ll take charge. I swear no one will ever drive you.”

Simple: my car, my rules.

Bryn texted me days before her 18th birthday.

Hi Lyra, I’m borrowing your car this weekend. My birthday weekend! This encompasses the mall, spa, and more. Try not to say no, girl!”

“This girl has some nerve,” I said. I wouldn’t let her drive. She had just learned to drive, and I didn’t trust her not to destroy it.

“Sorry, Bryn. My car is mine to drive. Also doing several shifts this weekend. I need it for that.”

She responded quickly. I imagined her typing furiously on her bed.

I hate your selfishness! My birthday! Everyone expects me to have a car, Lyra! You’re wrecking my life and image. Everything is your fault!”

Started staring at the screen. Because keeping the peace was my duty, I tempered my replies for years. I was used to letting Bryn do as she pleased, but not this time.

I was overly attached to my car.

“No, you pay. If a car is important to you and no one else will buy it, consider saving for it like I did.

Her 17 eye-roll emojis were followed by quiet.

Saturday began with pavement-shining heat. I went to the kitchen for coffee after sleeping in.

I briefly believed I was dreaming when I peeked through the blinds to the driveway.

I had limp cobweb-like white streamer loops on my automobile. At first, I couldn’t comprehend what I saw. After clearing my eyes, I stopped breathing.

Eggs. Numerous.

Shell fragments gleamed in the early sun, yolk dripping in thick, filthy streaks down the windshield, grille, and doors. The eggs were hardening on the car’s paint in the rising heat.

Like someone had mistook my driveway for a Halloween party house, five or six rolls of toilet paper draped from the mirrors, antenna, and trees.

The concrete was warm as I ran barefoot. I stared and tried to shake off the terrible feeling.

“Lyra?” my mom yelled from the kitchen. Everything okay out there?

I initially remained silent. I couldn’t.

I finally said, “Someone hit my car,” but the words were too simple.

“What on earth…?” The disarray made her gasp when she opened the door.

We reviewed our door camera footage. I instinctively knew what we’d uncover. In a dazzling birthday sash, Bryn and two friends giggle like it’s the happiest night of their life.

They flung eggs on the hood with style, toilet paper flying like party ribbons. One even mounted a phone on the mailbox to record it.

“She filmed?” Mom asked in awe. “I’m shocked…”

“She thinks it’s funny,” I groused. “Like a prank. Because I forbade her from using my car.”

We grabbed the hose too late. The yolk was baking into the paint. Water exacerbated the problem.

I called Bryn after shaking hands and taking photos.

She said, “Finally,” as if waiting for my call. “I expected a call sooner.”

“What’s wrong?” I demanded. “You wrecked my car, Bryn.”

“That’s a big word, Lyra,” she said calmly. If you had let me take it, this wouldn’t have occurred. You received your due.”

“You egged a leased car,” I yelled. “This is my money and law responsibility!”

“It’s just eggs, buddy,” she said. “Wash off.”

“It’s already painted, Bryn.”

“Then don’t leave it in the sun,” she said. “Why are you blaming me for your weak car?”

I hung up before losing it.

My hands shook, but not from terror. Simply exhausted. Aunt Faye called a moment later. She didn’t say hi.

“Lyra, it’s just a car,” she said. It can be cleaned. Bryn, 18, is still young. Be better.”

“She filmed herself doing it,” I remarked, trying to sound pleasant. Aunt Faye, that’s not a hoax. Breaking property. The cost of fixing it properly is unknown. I must inform Bryn about her damage. Will file charges.”

She snapped, “Stop acting like a victim.” Lyra, you declined to lend her the automobile. Activities yield results. You know teens.”

“That works both ways,” I said.

Uncle Wade answered the phone smugly and rudely.

“You’re almost 30, Lyra,” he added. “You want to ruin Bryn’s record over eggs and toilet paper? Come on. Drop it and mature.”

Holding the table edge, I exhaled slowly.

I’ll send the repair charge. You pay or Bryn works it off. A chore, task, anything. I’m not demanding her arrest. But I want her to accept responsibility.”

After a break, Bryn spoke again.

“I’m not your maid,” she snapped.

Suddenly, the conversation ended. As did all prospect of a mature or respectful solution.

Late afternoon, I called in ill for catering. I took my stinky car to the body shop. Zane, the service worker, gently circled it, his face stiffening.

He said, “Lyra, eggs are really acidic.” “They eat through the clear coat when they sit, especially in heat. You have damage here, here, and across this panel seam. This isn’t just cleanup. At least four parts need sanding and painting.”

“How much are we seeing?” I inquired, dreading the response.

“Approximately $2400–$2500,” he continued. “I’ll print a list of tasks and costs.”

I showered at home but couldn’t get rid of the egg smell no matter how hard I scrubbed. I sat at the kitchen table with hot cocoa and emailed Aunt Faye and Uncle Wade the bill, hoping they would come.

The debt is this much. Straight from the body shop. You can pay or Bryn can work it off. Please respond by Monday.”

I got a response quickly.

“We pay nothing. Let go, Lyra. Stop talking about this crap. Grow up.”

Sitting there with my phone, I felt something alter. Not rage, but a lot of insight.

Will you press charges, honey? My mom asked gently while stirring tea. Her voice was tired and gentle, not accusatory.

“Mom, she ruined my car after I told her to follow my rules?” I said, trying not to stutter. I offered choices. I suggested she figure it out. I didn’t bring lawyers. I offered an exit, but they declined.”

I didn’t want a lawsuit. Just to hold her accountable the best way I could.

My mom nodded but watched her cup.

I know Bryn’s a handful, Lyra. Faye has always allowed her to get away with stuff. Once, I thought it was harmless. But now…it’s different.”

“It’s always been like this,” I whispered. When we were kids, Bryn would steal and ruin my stuff without saying sorry. I was told to forgive, share, and improve. And why? Because she was young?”

“I worry, honey. My mom finally looked at me and said, “This will split the family.” “People chat. You understand.”

“Then let them talk,” I shouted, louder than planned. “Bryn split the family when she thought she could ruin my car because I said no.”

The silence was long. Mom didn’t argue. Sighing, she lowered her shoulders in worry.

“I just don’t want you carrying this weight forever,” she added.

“I’ve been carrying it for years,” I said. “I’m putting it down, forever.”

I reported it to police the next morning. I handed them the surveillance footage, images, repair bill, and texts. I sat at the station with dry lips and shaking hands. I felt uncomfortable speaking up, like wearing too-large shoes.

That night, fallout began. My phone buzzed incessantly while my mom and I ate chicken and mayo toasted sandwiches at the kitchen table.

Aunt Faye: “Do you want to ruin your little sister’s life over a joke?”

Uncle Wade said, “You’re pathetic, Lyra. My God. This is because my daughter is a star. and you work reception?”

Bryn then texted.

“You ruined my life.”

“Which college will accept me?”

“Just paint!”

I hope you’re happy. You selfish witch.”

I muted my phone and ate. I owed no one an explanation for once.

Insurance quickly approved my claim. My car was in the shop, so I borrowed my mom’s. I drove a car that rattled when I turned quickly and smelled like her hand lotion and cough pills for a week.

Though imperfect, it worked, unlike the radio. Indeed, the calm drive let me reflect.

Bryn uploaded a filtered video of her crying on her bedroom floor.

The caption was silly: “Toxic cousins despise your success. Queens, don’t let haters dim your shine.”

Aunt Faye wrote “Stay strong, baby girl.” with three heart emojis.

Sitting on my couch, I watched the vistas rise. The video didn’t mention me, but the comments did.

I’m surprised she didn’t let you drive the automobile.

A selfish person caused this? Glad my family is normal.”

I realised that it wasn’t only about the paint, expense, or damage. People like Bryn always twist the tale to make themselves the victim.

People like me? We should relax and accept the bullshit.

The court date followed.

Bryn was charged as an adult after egging my car on her 18th birthday, hours after turning 18.

Her attorney smirked at the prosecution.

“We offer a deal. Bryn will consider repayment if Lyra removes the charges.”

“The victim owes nothing,” the prosecutor remarked without batting an eye.

“Go ahead,” the judge nodded.

I thought my voice would break as I spoke. I breathed and gained strength.

“Your Honor,” I said. This isn’t a prank. A pattern of selfishness without repercussions. For years, Bryn has stolen and destroyed my belongings without apology. This car was different—I worked for, paid for, and safeguarded it. I had rules. Her disrespectful behavior included destroying my belongings and mocking me. A deal, restitution, or job was offered. No, they refused. Neither do I seek revenge. Want responsibility.”

After some thinking, the judge read the decision: six months’ probation, 40 hours of community service outside our family, court-ordered reimbursement of my $500 deductible, and a written apology.

Aunt Faye passed me outside the courthouse, her eyes burning.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she replied.

“I’m really not,” I said. “But I’m sad it happened. But I’m not embarrassed. Someone has to educate your youngster better behavior.”

“Lyra, family doesn’t drag family to court,” Uncle Wade remarked.

A family doesn’t train kids to think they can damage others’ stuff and call it a comedy, I remarked.

The apologies letter arrived a week later. Though brief and scribbled under pressure, it was Bryn’s handwriting.

“Sorry for damaging your car. I didn’t consider your reaction. I was furious you declined. I realize that was selfish and wrong. Will work my hours and compensate you.”

It wasn’t sincere. It didn’t repair everything. It was the first time she called herself wrong. I left it on the counter.

Court account checks began gently, then more frequently. I meticulously recorded each modest payment in a spreadsheet. My automobile was clean, gleaming, and shaded when I went to the farmer’s market on Saturday.

Not simply an automobile. I could finally hold my own place.