Cars have always been in my blood. When I was a kid, my dad—a part-time racecar driver—taught me everything about engines, suspensions, and the thrill of hearing an engine roar to life. By twelve, I could change a tire faster than most adults. Later, I turned that passion into a career as a senior mechanic, which is how I’ve supported myself all these years. It might not be everyone’s dream job, but it’s definitely mine.
Enter Christine—my mother-in-law. The first time we met, she gave me a look that said, You’re not good enough for my son. She didn’t even try to hide her disapproval. To her, being a mechanic wasn’t a “real career” for a woman, and every time she talked about my work, it was with barely concealed disdain. She never understood how I could love something that made my hands dirty and my clothes oily. But I brushed it off. I love her son, Henry, and he’s always been my biggest supporter. We got married a year after we started dating, and Christine’s chilly attitude was just part of the package.
The real drama began on my birthday. Henry arranged a small get-together at our place, and Christine showed up with an unsettlingly smug smile and a set of car keys. “Happy birthday, Elisa,” she said, leading me to her garage. There, under a dusty old tarp, was a decrepit 2008 Ford Mustang GT. It was rusted, caked with grime, and clearly hadn’t been started in over a decade.
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