My name is Lucinda, and for as long as I can remember, my family has repeated one mantra to me: “Let it go, be the mature one.” In their language, that always meant: “Don’t upset Seraphina. Just give her what she demands.”

Seraphina isn’t a distant relative; she’s my cousin, though our mothers are sisters who raised us side by side in Granby, a quiet New England town. We spent entire summers sharing bedrooms, trading clothes, and finishing each other’s cereal boxes. At least, that’s how it started.

But as the years passed, “sharing” transformed into Seraphina taking whatever she pleased. My jackets returned stretched or stained, my headphones came back cracked, my notebooks mysteriously vanished. Whenever I complained, Aunt Marjorie would wave her hand.
“She’s younger than you, Lucinda. Be kind. Be the bigger person.”

And so I swallowed my protests, convincing myself it was easier to accept the loss than start a family feud.

That pattern held until last year, when I leased my first car. A modest blue Ford Focus, older than I wished, but reliable and fully mine to work toward. No one cosigned the papers. No one handed it to me. I bought it with long days at the law office where I worked as an assistant and endless weekends serving hors d’oeuvres at wedding receptions.

Sliding into that driver’s seat, I whispered to the steering wheel, “You’re safe with me. No one else drives you.” It might have sounded silly, but the promise felt sacred.

Then, just before Seraphina’s eighteenth birthday, my phone lit up.

“Borrowing your car this weekend,” her message read. “Spa, mall, birthday vibes. Don’t say no!”

I stared at the screen in disbelief. She’d barely passed her driving test, and my gut screamed she’d wreck it.

“No, Sera,” I replied. “It’s my car, and I need it for work shifts. You’ll have to make other plans.”

Her reply shot back instantly. “You’re ruining my birthday! Everyone will think I’m pathetic without a car. You’re selfish!”

For once, I didn’t fold. I told her calmly that if she wanted a car, she could work for one, the same way I did.

That Saturday morning, I walked into the kitchen for coffee and froze when I glanced outside. My Focus looked like it had been ambushed. Toilet paper streamed from the mirrors, and yolk dripped down the hood in slimy trails. The summer sun baked the mess into the paint, the stench souring the air.

My mother rushed over, horrified, and together we checked the door camera. There she was—Seraphina in a glitter sash, flinging eggs with her friends, shrieking with laughter as they recorded everything on a phone propped against our mailbox.

I felt sick. And furious.

When I confronted her over the phone, she acted smug. “If you’d lent it to me, none of this would’ve happened. Don’t be dramatic—it’s just eggs.”

Just eggs. On a leased car that carried my name and my debt.

Aunt Marjorie called minutes later, ordering me to “stop acting like a victim” and reminding me again to be the bigger person. My uncle chimed in too: “You’re nearly thirty, Lucinda. Don’t ruin a teenager’s future over a little prank.”

But something inside me snapped. For once, I didn’t back down. I sent them the repair shop’s estimate—$2,400 for sanding and repainting panels damaged by the acidic yolk. Either they covered it, or Seraphina could work off the debt. They refused, dismissing me as petty.

So I filed a police report.

The fallout was immediate. Seraphina flooded my phone with messages: “You’ve destroyed my life.” “Which university will take me now?” “All over a bit of paint?” My aunt accused me of betrayal; my uncle mocked my job title. On social media, Seraphina posted teary-eyed videos about having a “toxic cousin” who was jealous of her. Her friends commented with sympathy, none knowing the real story.

But for once, their noise didn’t move me.

At the hearing, the judge listened as I explained: “This wasn’t a prank. It was retaliation because I set a boundary. She’s done this for years—taking, damaging, and never apologizing. My car was different. I asked for accountability, not revenge.”

The ruling came down: six months’ probation, forty hours of community service, restitution for my deductible, and a written apology.

Outside the courthouse, Aunt Marjorie hissed, “You should be ashamed.”
I looked her in the eye. “No. What’s shameful is raising a child to believe she can destroy other people’s property without consequences.”

The apology letter arrived a week later. Short, reluctant, but signed in Seraphina’s handwriting. It wasn’t redemption, but it was the first time she admitted she was wrong.

Now, when I drive my car—freshly polished, the paint restored—I think less about the damage and more about what it taught me. Boundaries don’t destroy families. Entitlement does. And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is finally stop being the “bigger person.”