od enough for her son.

Then came my birthday.

Henry threw me a small party, and Christine showed up with a smug grin and a set of car keys in her hand.

“Well, happy birthday, Elisa,” she said in her fake sweet tone.

“Thank you,” I said, confused as she handed me the keys.

“Since you’re such an ‘amazing’ mechanic,” she added with a smirk, “here’s a project for you.”

A few minutes later, I followed her to her garage, where she unveiled a decrepit 2008 Ford Mustang GT, covered in a decade’s worth of dust and cobwebs.

“It hasn’t run in over ten years,” she said, clearly enjoying herself.

“Fix it if you’re so good. Happy birthday.”

This was, without a doubt, the strangest gift I’d ever received. My friends, who had followed us to the garage, exchanged bewildered looks.

Christine gave me one last smirk before walking off.

That’s when I understood she thought she’d put me in my place with that so-called “gift.” But what she didn’t realize was that she’d handed me a challenge.

And I loved a good challenge.

A day after my birthday, I returned to the garage.

Beneath the dust and grime, I could see the potential. I knew that with the right amount of love and effort, this baby could shine again.

It took some effort (and a good chunk of my own money) to tow the car to my garage, but I was determined.

Over the next six months, I poured everything I had into that Mustang. I sourced rare parts, some of which I had to track down from collectors across the country.

I worked late nights, replacing the engine, fixing the suspension, and even restoring the interior to its former glory.

At that point, it wasn’t just about making it run again. I wanted it to look like it had just rolled off the factory floor.

Henry would often come into the garage while I was working, bringing me snacks or just hanging out to keep me company.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” he’d say, watching as I fine-tuned the engine. “My mom has no idea who she’s dealing with.”

By the time I was done, the Mustang wasn’t just running.

It was a masterpiece.

The shiny black paint gleamed under the lights, and the engine purred like a contented cat. I knew I’d turned that forgotten heap of metal into a car worth at least $20,000.

My friends, neighbors, and even some of my clients came by to see it.

Word spread quickly, and soon enough, Christine caught wind of my success.

One afternoon, as I was admiring the finished car in my garage, Christine stormed in unannounced. She didn’t even bother with pleasantries.

“That car is still legally mine,” she declared, waving the title like it was a sword.

“And I want it back.”

I blinked, trying to process what I was hearing. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she said, crossing her arms. “You’ve had your fun fixing it up, but now it’s time to hand it over.

I’ll be selling it myself.”

I stared at her in disbelief. Was she asking me to return her gift? Really, Christine?

“You gave this car to me as a gift, Christine.

Remember? On my birthday?”

Her lips curled into a smirk. “A gift, sure.

But I never said you could keep it.”

I could feel my blood boiling, but I wasn’t about to lose my composure.

“Well, here’s the thing,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “I have receipts for every single cent I spent on this car, photos documenting every stage of the restoration, and witnesses who heard you explicitly say it was a gift. So, no, you’re not getting it back.”

Christine’s smirk faltered, but she didn’t back down.

“We’ll see about that,” she said before storming out.

And see we did.

I hired a lawyer, and the court case was swift.

My lawyer presented all the evidence, including testimony from my friends and family who had been at my birthday party.

They confirmed that Christine had declared the car a gift. The judge ruled in my favor, stating that the Mustang was legally mine.

Christine was even ordered to cover my legal fees.

The victory was sweet, but the icing on the cake was what came next.

I sold the Mustang for $20,000 and used part of the money to buy a new car for myself and fund a road trip with Henry. We drove across the country in our dream car, visiting car shows and making memories that we’d cherish forever.

As for Christine, she wasn’t thrilled about the outcome.

Moreover, her son had finally set some firm boundaries.

“Mom, if you can’t respect Elisa, then you’re not welcome in our lives,” he told her.

And just like that, her interference began to dwindle.

I don’t know if she has truly accepted my job as a “real career,” but I’m sure she’ll think twice before handing me another car key again.

Source: amomama