“They’re hitting the sedan,” I said.
“Stay back,” he replied instantly. “I’m calling dispatch. Record everything.”
The sedan wasn’t just a borrowed favor. It belonged to his company—a training vehicle equipped with cameras, GPS tracking, and registered under a loan agreement. If my parents damaged it, it wouldn’t be brushed aside as family drama.
Police lights flooded the driveway before their anger ran out.
My father froze mid-swing. My mother dropped the hammer. Sabrina stopped laughing instantly.
Two officers stepped out of the cruiser. One looked at the shattered windshield, the dented hood, and the tire iron in my father’s hand.
“Sir,” he said calmly, “set that down.”
My mother hurried forward. “It’s our daughter’s car. She’s disrespectful. We’re just teaching her a lesson.”
“That’s not how the law works,” the officer replied.
I showed them the video from my phone: my parents walking to the car, grabbing tools, smashing it deliberately.
Marcus arrived moments later with paperwork—registration and loan documents.
