My name is Lucinda, and for as long as I can remember, my family has repeated one mantra to me: “Let it go, be the mature one.” In their language, that always meant: “Don’t upset Seraphina. Just give her what she demands.”

Seraphina isn’t a distant relative; she’s my cousin, though our mothers are sisters who raised us side by side in Granby, a quiet New England town. We spent entire summers sharing bedrooms, trading clothes, and finishing each other’s cereal boxes. At least, that’s how it started.

But as the years passed, “sharing” transformed into Seraphina taking whatever she pleased. My jackets returned stretched or stained, my headphones came back cracked, my notebooks mysteriously vanished. Whenever I complained, Aunt Marjorie would wave her hand.
“She’s younger than you, Lucinda. Be kind. Be the bigger person.”

And so I swallowed my protests, convincing myself it was easier to accept the loss than start a family feud.

That pattern held until last year, when I leased my first car. A modest blue Ford Focus, older than I wished, but reliable and fully mine to work toward. No one cosigned the papers. No one handed it to me. I bought it with long days at the law office where I worked as an assistant and endless weekends serving hors d’oeuvres at wedding receptions.

Sliding into that driver’s seat, I whispered to the steering wheel, “You’re safe with me. No one else drives you.” It might have sounded silly, but the promise felt sacred.

Then, just before Seraphina’s eighteenth birthday, my phone lit up.

“Borrowing your car this weekend,” her message read. “Spa, mall, birthday vibes. Don’t say no!”

I stared at the screen in disbelief. She’d barely passed her driving test, and my gut screamed she’d wreck it.

“No, Sera,” I replied. “It’s my car, and I need it for work shifts. You’ll have to make other plans.”

Her reply shot back instantly. “You’re ruining my birthday! Everyone will think I’m pathetic without a car. You’re selfish!”

For once, I didn’t fold. I told her calmly that if she wanted a car, she could work for one, the same way I did.

That Saturday morning, I walked into the kitchen for coffee and froze when I glanced outside. My Focus looked like it had been ambushed. Toilet paper streamed from the mirrors, and yolk dripped down the hood in slimy trails. The summer sun baked the mess into the paint, the stench souring the air.

My mother rushed over, horrified, and together we checked the door camera. There she was—Seraphina in a glitter sash, flinging eggs with her friends, shrieking with laughter as they recorded everything on a phone propped against our mailbox.