I’ve always been the sister who says “yes.” The one who drops everything when family calls. The dependable one.
Maybe that’s my biggest flaw.
Three months ago, I had surgery. It wasn’t life-or-death, but serious enough that the doctor wagged his finger at me.
“One month of rest, Rebecca,” he said firmly. “No driving until you heal. No working. Just rest.”
I nodded like a good patient. What choice did I have?
Two days into recovery, my phone rang. My older sister Kathy’s voice crackled through the line, sharp and desperate.
“Becky, I’m totally screwed. My car just died.”
I shifted on the couch, feeling the sting of my stitches. “What happened?”
“The mechanic says the transmission’s shot. Three grand to fix it.” She let out a long, shaky sigh. “I don’t even have $300 in my account.”
Silence stretched. I could almost hear her biting her lip.
“Becky… could I maybe borrow your car? Just until mine’s fixed?”
I looked out the window at my Honda sitting in the driveway, unused.
“Of course,” I said instantly.
“What? Really? You’d actually let me borrow it?”
“You’re my sister, Kathy. I’m stuck here for four weeks anyway. The car’s just sitting there.”
Her voice softened, almost childlike. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.”
“Dead serious. Just take care of it like it’s your own, okay?”
“I will. I swear on Mom’s grave, I will. God, Becky, you’re literally saving my life.”
For the next four weeks, things worked fine. She even drove me to the doctor once.
“See?” she said, grinning as she adjusted my mirrors and blasted pop music I hated. “This is perfect. You help me, I help you. Win-win.”
I forced a smile. “I appreciate it.”
“Hey, the least I can do. You’re letting me use your car for free. Most people would charge for that.”
Family helps family, I told myself.
Week four, she burst into my house, keys jingling.
“Guess what? My car’s ready! They found a used transmission that won’t bankrupt me.”
Relief washed over me. Not just because her problem was solved, but because I needed my independence back. I had a huge interview the next morning at Morrison & Associates—my dream job.
“That’s great news,” I said. “When do you pick it up?”
“Tonight after work.”
Perfect.
That evening, she dropped my keys on the counter. “Thanks again, little sis. You saved my life. I owe you big time.”
The next morning, sunlight streamed in. My blazer was pressed, my resume crisp. This job could save me from drowning in debt.
I practically skipped to my car, slid in, and turned the key.
The engine sputtered for half a second… then died.
“No, no, no…” I tried again. Same thing. My hands shook.
I called Kathy.
“Hey there!” she chirped. “What’s up?”
“My car won’t start. Did you notice anything wrong?”
“Um… maybe it’s out of gas?”
I blinked. “Out of gas?”
“Yeah, I didn’t fill it up last night. I figured you’d handle that.”
“Kathy, my interview is in one hour!”
“Oh… right. That’s today?”
“Yes, that’s today! I told you three times this week!”
“Okay, okay, don’t freak out. Just call an Uber or something.”
“Do you have any idea how much that’ll cost me?”
“Look, I can’t change it. Just figure it out.” She hung up.
By the time a rideshare came, I was already 30 minutes late.
The receptionist smiled politely but coldly.
“I’m so sorry,” I stammered. “My car wouldn’t start—”
“Ms. Morrison had to leave. We’ll be moving forward with other candidates.”
I stood there in the glossy lobby, portfolio clutched to my chest, and felt my future slip away.
At home, Dad found me at the table, head in my hands. I told him everything. His jaw tightened.
“Invite her for dinner tonight,” he said.
When I called, Kathy’s voice lit up.
“Dad’s making pot roast? With those little potatoes? I’m there!”
At six sharp, she walked in with daisies from the grocery store.
“Mmm, smells amazing in here,” she said, kissing Dad’s cheek.
We ate like nothing was wrong—until Dad set down his knife and fixed his eyes on her.
“Kathy, I’ve been thinking about kindness.”
She smiled. “Oh yeah?”
“About how your sister lent you her car for a month. No fee. No limits. Pure generosity.”
“She really is the best sister in the world!”
“And you gave it back empty.”
Her smile faltered.
“She missed a crucial job interview because of you,” Dad continued.
“I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t mean to be thoughtless? That interview could’ve changed her life.”
“I was broke! I couldn’t afford gas.”
“But you could afford dinner out Tuesday night,” Dad said flatly.
The room went silent. Dad left the table and returned with a red gas can.
“You’re filling her tank tonight. And you’re paying her back for every dollar of gas you used.”
“That’s not fair!”
“Fair is returning something the way you got it. Fair is thinking of someone besides yourself.”
That night, Kathy filled my tank in sullen silence. The next day, she shoved an envelope of crumpled bills at me.
“Here,” she muttered.
“Thank you,” I said.
She turned to leave, then spun around, her face red.
“You turned Dad against me over gas money?”
“No, Kathy. You did that to yourself.”
“You’re being dramatic. It was an honest mistake.”
“Honest? You knew exactly what you were doing. You had money for Romano’s Tuesday night, but not five dollars for gas?”
Her face went pale. “That was different.”
“No. It wasn’t.”
She glared, then left without another word.
I used that money to get to another interview. I got the job. My savings are growing again.
Kathy and I barely speak now. Some call it sad. I call it an expensive lesson.
Here’s what I know now: kindness isn’t weakness—but it’s worth something. And if someone forgets that, I’ll make sure they remember the cost.