Three years after losing my husband in a wreck, I was barely surviving—working two jobs while raising Dora and Ethan. When my old minivan died, my wealthy, polished neighbor Cheryl swooped in with a “deal”: her nephew’s Toyota for $2,500, “practically new.” Desperate, I bought it. Within a day, it broke down, and the mechanic confirmed it had been failing for months. When I confronted Cheryl, she smugly reminded me it was cash, no warranties, no returns.
The next day, cleaning out the car before scrapping it, I found a leather pouch under the seat—inside, $7,000 in cash, pawn receipts, and an envelope marked “Cheryl.” Hours later, she came begging for it back, claiming “sentimental value,” but I reminded her of her own words about the “real world.” She tried calling later, saying the money belonged to dangerous people, but I hung up.
The morning after, Cheryl’s house was dark, papers piling up, and her car gone—she’d skipped town. The mechanic helped me sell the Toyota for parts and got me a reliable Honda from a friend at an honest price. Cheryl’s “gift” replaced my car, rebuilt my emergency fund, and let me breathe for the first time in months.
