Three weeks before Grandma’s party, I stopped by my parents’ house and saw my SUV in the garage—with Noah’s car seat strapped into the back.
I asked my mother, “Why is my car here?”
Without even looking at me, she said, “Savannah needed to borrow it for a few days. Her mechanic said her van will take a week.”
A week passed. Then another. Then another.
When I texted Savannah, she told me the mechanic needed more time. When I called Mom and asked for my car back, she turned cold.
“Don’t be difficult, Chloe. Your sister has a child. She needs reliable transportation. You work from home. You can Uber.”
“It’s my car.”
“It’s just a car,” she replied. “Don’t be materialistic. Savannah needs it more. You’re flexible.”
There was that word again.
When I called Savannah directly, she said, “Mom said I could use it. I thought you were fine with it. You don’t really need it, right?”
I said, “That’s not the point. No one asked me.”
She brushed it off and said we could “work it out” at Grandma’s party.