But because it was mine.
Every payment, every late night, every “maybe next month” I had told myself—it all led to that moment. The paint still had that deep, untouched shine. The interior smelled new. Even the steering wheel felt like something I had earned, not just bought.
I wasn’t thinking about status.
I was thinking about effort.
That afternoon, my sister came by with my nephew.
He was eight—loud, curious, always moving. The kind of kid who touched everything, asked questions without waiting for answers, and never quite understood where the line was.
I didn’t mind.
At least, not until that day.
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