My father shot to his feet so fast his chair screeched across the floor. “You disrespectful little—”
“It’s a car,” I said calmly. “Exactly what you demanded.”
My mother’s voice went cold. “When we get home, you’re finished.”
When we arrived home, they didn’t even step inside.
My father grabbed a tire iron from the garage. My mother picked up a hammer. Without hesitation they marched straight toward the sedan.
The first strike shattered the windshield into a spiderweb of glass. Shards rattled down across the seats. Sabrina gasped—and then laughed as if the whole thing were entertainment.
My father swung again, denting the hood. My mother smashed the side mirror until it dangled by a wire. They looked almost feral, convinced they were teaching me a lesson.
And that’s when I started laughing.
Because the car they were destroying wasn’t my car.
My mother’s hammer kept rising and falling like she wanted to erase me. My father hammered away with the tire iron. I stepped back, pulled out my phone, and called Marcus.
