And she was right—until Jessica came crashing back into the picture.
She stormed into my place one morning, wild-eyed and frantic. “Where are the keys? I need the car now!” she demanded. Her boyfriend Tom’s car had died, and apparently, she’d decided that my car—the one I had poured my time and savings into—was the answer.
I reminded her, as calmly as I could, that she had sold it to me. It didn’t matter that we hadn’t filed the final transfer documents. She took my money. That car was mine.
But that didn’t stop her—or my parents—from siding with her. “She has kids to worry about,” they said. The guilt trip was real. And even though every part of me screamed don’t, I gave her the keys.
That night, I sat on the couch with Gabi, feeling completely used. But then she said, “You still have the tracker and camera in the car, right?”
I did.
Curious, I pulled up the footage. What I saw made my stomach turn: Jessica flying down residential streets, laughing with Tom about flipping the car for cash. Flipping my car. The one I built from scratch.
I didn’t get angry. I got prepared.
I gathered every receipt, every photo, and every clip of video. Then I called a lawyer. We drafted a formal letter—detailed expenses, documented evidence, and a clear warning: Sign over the title, or face legal consequences.
Three days later, Jessica returned—angry and red-faced, waving the letter like it was a personal attack.
“What is this, Dustin?” she snapped.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t argue. I calmly told her the truth: She had two options—make it official, or we go to court. And this time, the whole family would see what really happened.
Backed into a corner, Jessica gave in. She signed the title over, no more arguments, no more tricks.
Now, the car is legally mine—inside and out. Every time I slide behind the wheel, I’m not just driving a restored ride—I’m driving a lesson in boundaries, integrity, and standing your ground.
What would you have done in my shoes?