My Sister Stole My Bmw For Her “Influencer Image” While I Took A Taxi To Family Dinner. Grandpa Saw Me Pull Up In A Cab And Reassigned The Family Trust Fund To Me. Aita For Letting Them Go Broke?
The Taxi and the Questions
My grandpa asked in surprise, “Buddy, why did you come by taxi? What happened to the BMW we gave you for your 21st birthday?”
Before I could answer, my mother smiled and said, “That car belongs to his sister now.”
My grandpa stayed silent for a moment, deep in thought, and what he did next made me truly proud of him. My name is Wade. I’m 26, the oldest grandchild, the quiet fixer in a loud family.
If something wobbles, I shim it. If someone forgets a birthday, I drive across town with a cake and a Sharpie. I run a small workshop in a rented garage where I hand-paint Christmas ornaments: glass robins, tiny cabins with frosted windows, little snow globes that don’t leak if you seal them right.
My hands smell like lacquer most days. I like checklists, coffee that tastes like pennies, and the feeling of a straight paint line when my wrist doesn’t shake. People think I’m patient. The truth is, I’m conflict-allergic.
I learned early that a calm voice and a credit card solve most family emergencies faster than any argument. That’s our Wade, Mom likes to say. He’s steady.
The Saturday Everything Snapped
The Saturday everything snapped, I came to my grandparents’ house in a taxi because my hands were full of sample boxes for the holiday market, and because the BMW was not in my life anymore. I still had glitter in my hair from a batch of snowflakes that shed like nervous cats.
I was halfway up the porch, juggling a box with my knee, when Grandpa opened the door in his sweater vest and said, warm and surprised, “Buddy, why did you come by taxi? What happened to the BMW we gave you for your 21st birthday?”
I froze. The screen door sighed on its spring. In the hallway mirror, I saw myself: tired, smudged, looking like the kind of guy who would say, “It’s fine, it’s nothing, don’t worry.”
Before I could answer, my mother stepped out from the dining room with a bright practice smile that meant she’d already decided the story. “That car belongs to his sister now,” she said, like it was a punchline we’d all enjoy.
The room changed temperature. My uncle stopped chewing. The old clock in the foyer got very loud. Grandpa went very still. He looked at Mom, at me, back at Mom, like he was reading labels on cans he didn’t remember buying.
“Belongs to who?” he asked, even though he’d heard.
“To Bri,” Mom said. “You know how hard she works. Wade hardly drives; he just paints little balls.”
She made a soft “haha” sound, the kind that pretends to be kind. My uncle snorted on cue.
“Mom,” I said, my voice doing a thin, embarrassing thing.
Bri poked her head around the corner with a straw in her water and a ring light reflection in her eyes. “It’s just logistics,” she chirped. “I have meetings.”
Grandpa rubbed his jaw once, the way he does when he is doing math. He patted my shoulder gently. “Come in, son,” he said, and led me to the table.
He didn’t argue. He didn’t raise his voice. He folded his napkin and, in that same polite tone he uses with contractors who overbid, started asking questions.
The Truth Crouched in My Chest
I wish I could tell you I said something sharp. I didn’t. I slid into the chair next to him and pressed my thumb into the cardboard of a sample box until I felt the edge bite skin. I took a breath and tasted metal.
The first question was simple. “When did the car start belonging to your sister?” Grandpa asked.
“Dad,” Mom said, warning in her voice.
“Let the boy speak,” Grandpa said. Then he looked at me.
The truth crouched in my chest; I could feel it scratching. “I don’t know,” I said. “It just happened.”
And that was the worst part: it had just happened, so many times before. People romanticize family business. They picture cinnamon in the air, a bell over the door, cousins laughing as they tie bows. In my family, “business” is the word you use when you need Wade to swipe his card without asking questions.
I started Wade Works Ornaments at 19 after a seasonal job packing craft kits. With my first paycheck, I bought a used airbrush with a temperamental trigger and a box of misprinted glass bulbs, cheap from a closing party store. Nights, I watched videos about hand lettering.
The first Christmas, I set up a folding table outside a grocery store and froze my face off while painting “Ava,” “Logan,” “Coach Ben”—names I still remember because those people stopped and smiled at a kid doing careful work. By 21, I had regulars: teachers who returned every year for a class of stars, couples who ordered a tiny version of their house with the right number of windows.
The BMW was Grandpa’s idea. He said, “A craftsman needs reliable wheels,” and marched me to a dealership where he ignored the shiny, stupid cars and picked a sensible used sedan with good brakes and a trunk big enough for market racks.
He shook the sales guy’s hand and said, “This isn’t for show. This is for work.”
He handed me the key with that practical pride that’s warmer than any speech. Mom smiled for the photo. Later, the smile cooled. Not because she disliked me having a car—she liked anything that could be leveraged—but because she wasn’t driving the moment.
Family Equity
“We keep things balanced,” she said.
“Family equity” balanced in our house meant if Wade has a tool, it becomes community property. If Bri has a platform, it becomes family identity.
Bri is 22, charismatic, and as Mom says, “front of house.” Translation: she posts things. She talks into cameras like they’re people, and people talk back. Once in high school, she got a free pair of leggings for a brand shoutout and you would have thought she discovered penicillin.
The creep started small. Bri needed a ride to a collab. Bri needed to borrow the BMW just for the weekend. Mom needed the business debit card for a little ad spin “to help everyone.” She asked for logins “so I can support you with marketing.”
I said yes because saying no in our house felt like slamming a door in a library: everyone hears, everyone acts offended. Then came the first loan. Mom called while I was sealing a dozen tiny reindeer.
“Honey,” she said in her sugar voice, “your father’s hours got cut this month. Could you front the mortgage just until the tax return?”
I did it. $1,800 plus fees. The next month: “Adjust this once for utilities. Then we’ll square it when Bri’s brand deal hits.”
It never hit, but they kept reminding me we were a team. “You’re the entrepreneur,” Mom would say. “Write it off.”
Meanwhile, the BMW started living at Bri’s. She posted mirror selfies with “my baby” like the car came from the content gods. When I asked to use it for a market across town, she said, “Ugh, I already have shoots. You work in a garage.”
She said it without malice, like weather. Like announcing it might rain. When I pushed harder, Mom sighed like I was unreasonable. “You hardly drive, Wade. Uber is a business expense. Bri has meetings.”
So I took Ubers to load-ins. I hauled boxes in the trunks of drivers who looked at me like I was building a nest. I told myself not to be petty. I poured the resentment into holly leaves and clean lines. I promised myself Christmas would fix it. Sales would spike, the numbers would excuse the fog.
