My parents “borrowed” my car for an errand, then I saw it listed for sale on my brother’s Facebook. I was halfway through a soggy turkey sandwich at my desk when my thumb froze on the screen. There, on my brother Ryan’s Facebook Marketplace page, was a silver Honda Civic.
Not a car like mine. My car. Same dent in the rear bumper from the night I misjudged the distance backing out of my apartment complex.
Same cheap little pine-tree air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. Same faded bumper sticker I kept meaning to peel off. Same license plate number I’d memorized the day I bought it.
Price: $8,500. Description:
One owner, clean title, serious inquiries only. For a second my brain tried to make it into a glitch.
Maybe it was some weird ad. Maybe Marketplace had started showing “similar” cars and this was just a coincidence. I zoomed in on the photos until the pixels blurred.
The registration was visible in one shot, tucked neatly into the edge of the glove box. My name. I felt my stomach drop, sandwich turning to paste in my mouth.
I dug my wallet out of my bag with shaking hands, pulled out the folded registration, and read the VIN. Then I read it again. Photo for photo.
Number for number. It matched. My parents had called that morning, chipper and casual, the way people sound when they’re about to ask you for something they’ve already decided you’re going to give them.
“Hey, honey,” Mom had said. “We just need to borrow your car for a quick grocery run. Dad’s truck won’t start and we’ve got to grab a few things.
Just an hour, maybe two.”
It was 8:00 a.m. I was already at work, still in that foggy, pre-coffee part of the day. “I need it back by six,” I’d told her.
“I have to pick up groceries after my shift.”
“Of course, sweetie. We’ll have it back way before then. You’re a lifesaver.”
I’d left the spare key under the mat the night before.
They picked it up around nine. Now it was 12:30. Three and a half hours later.
My car was online with two thousand reactions, thirty-seven comments, and at least ten people asking if it was still available and saying they could bring cash today. How do you report a theft when the thieves are your own parents? Before I say what I did, let me slip back into the rhythm I know by heart now:
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