I didn’t quite see my neighbors’ vintage ’67 Chevy Impala the same way, but to me it was more than just a rusty heap. What was supposed to be a fight over a “eyesore” developed into something none of us saw coming. It altered our peaceful suburban street in ways we never would have imagined.
My dad left me an ancient, beat-up 1967 Chevy Impala. I saw it as a project I wanted to restore and a reminder of my father, even though most people just saw it as a rusted automobile. My garage was piled high with tools and spare components, so the automobile sat in my yard. I’d been trying to save money and find time to work on it, but I knew it looked awful.
But my neighbors were far more concerned about this than I was. I was out inspecting the Impala one bright afternoon when I suddenly remembered something. Gus, my dad, was demonstrating how to change the oil. He smiled, his thick mustache twitching. “You see, Nate? It isn’t complicated science. Simply perseverance and hard work,” he had stated. A piercing voice jolted me back to reality as I was lost in thinking as I ran my fingers over the worn paint. A man leaning against a vintage car’s front end.
Please pardon me, Nate. Could we discuss about that? I turned to see my next-door neighbor, Karen, pointing disgustingly at the Impala. Hello, Karen. What’s going on?” Knowing where this was going, I asked.”That vehicle. It is aesthetically offensive. With crossed arms, she remarked, “It’s destroying the appearance of our street.” I exhaled. “I realize it appears rough right now, but I intend to fix it. It was my dad’s, but Karen cut him off, saying, “I don’t care whose it was.” It must be removed. or at the very least remain unseen. She pivoted and marched back to her house before I could reply.
As I watched her leave, I noticed a knot in my stomach. I vented to my girlfriend Heather over dinner later that night. “Do you think she’s real? “It seems as though she is unaware of the significance this car holds for me,” I remarked, picking at my salad. Squeezing my hand, Heather reached across the table. “I understand, sweetie. However, would you try working on it a little bit more quickly? simply to demonstrate to them your progress? I nodded, but I knew in my heart that it wasn’t that easy. Time was of the essence, and parts were costly.
When I returned home a week later, I discovered a notice from the city hidden beneath the wiper on my “offending” car. As I read it, my stomach fell. The general idea was to either remove the car or conceal it behind a fence. I clenched the piece of paper in my hand, feeling a surge of rage within. This was absurd. I required guidance. I picked up my friend Vince, who also loves cars. “Hey, buddy, have a moment? I’d like your opinion on something. Okay, what’s going on? Vince’s voice came across the phone crackling. I described the circumstances, becoming more irritated as I spoke. Before he spoke, Vince was silent for a while.
He spoke carefully and added, “Build the fence, but add a twist.” “What do you mean?” I curiously inquired.”You’ll discover. This weekend, I’ll be here. This will provide for some enjoyable times. Vince arrived that weekend with a truck full of paint and wood. For the next two days, we worked on erecting a towering fence to enclose my front yard. Vince told me about his strategy as we worked together. “We’re going to decorate this fence with a mural of the Impala. Every rust mark, every ding. We’ll make sure they remember the car if they decide to hide it. Loved the idea, I smiled. “Let’s get started.”On Sunday, we painted. Even though none of us was artistic, we were able to replicate the Impala on the fence really well.
For added effect, we even made some of the flaws seem worse. I was satisfied with my work when we took a step back to admire it. I decided to find out what the neighbors thought of this. It didn’t take me long to learn. There came a knock on my door the following afternoon. When I opened it, a cluster of neighbors surrounding Karen as she stood there. Their expressions were a peculiar mix of desperation and rage. “Nate, we need to talk about the fence,” Karen said in a tight voice. Hiding my delight, I leaned against the doorframe. How about it? I followed your instructions.
The automobile is now hidden.An older man called Frank, one of the other neighbors, raised his voice. We understand that we requested you to conceal the car, but this mural is simply too much, son. I arched an eyebrow. “Too much? In what way? Karen let out a deep sigh. “It’s more awful than the car itself. It appears as though you’ve transformed your entire yard into… “A show of art?” Unable to control my sarcasm, I made a suggestion. “A disgrace,” Karen firmly concluded. “We would prefer to see the actual car instead of this… monstrosity.”Maybe a little too much, I enjoyed their anguish as I crossed my arms. Now, allow me to clarify. You made me spend money on a fence after complaining about my automobile, and now you want me to pull it down? They all gave bashful nods.
After giving it some thinking, I decided to remove the fence—but only under one condition. As long as I’m working on fixing the car, you guys promise to quit whining about it. Alright?They glanced at one another before grudgingly agreeing. I could hear them whispering to each other as they left. I started tearing down the fence the following day. Some of my neighbors were seeing me work with interest. Even Tom, one of them, stopped over to talk. “I never really looked at that car before, Nate,” he remarked, pointing to the Impala. However, after getting a closer look, I can see that it has potential. Which year is it?I grinned, always up for a conversation about the car. It’s a 1967. When I was a little child, my dad purchased it. Tom gave a grateful nod. Good. My brother has a thing for vintage autos.
In the event that you require assistance with the restoration, I might contact him. I took aback at the offer. That would be fantastic. Regards, Tom. In the ensuing weeks, word of my initiative grew. To my astonishment, a number of neighborhood auto aficionados began dropping by to examine the Impala and provide guidance or assistance. I was working on the engine one Saturday morning when I heard a familiar voice behind me. “So, this is the well-known vehicle, huh?” I turned to see Karen standing there, intrigued yet seeming uneasy. I wiped my hands with a cloth and remarked, “Yep, this is her.” Karen moved in closer, staring at the motor. “I must admit that my knowledge of autos is quite limited.
How are you spending your time? Startled by her curiosity, I gave the bare outline of the project I was working on. More neighbors flocked around to listen and ask questions while we conversed. My yard quickly became the scene of an unplanned block party. A cooler full of drinks was brought out, and individuals started talking about their early automotive experiences or their recollections of owning vintage automobiles. I was surrounded by my neighbors as the sun was setting, and we were all conversing and laughing. Karen seems to be having fun as well. Looking at the Impala in the lovely evening light, it seemed better than ever, while still being rusty and battered up.
I couldn’t help but think about how much my father would have enjoyed this scene.Speaking to the group, I remarked, “You know, my dad always said a car wasn’t just a machine.” It was a narrative reimagined. Considering how many stories this old girl has brought out today, I believe he would be quite pleased. There were lifted glasses and murmurs of agreement. I noticed something as I turned to face my neighbors, who were now my pals. Despite all of the difficulty it had caused, this car had ultimately brought us all together. Though the restoration was still a long way off, I sensed that the voyage ahead would be much more pleasurable. Who knows?
Perhaps a whole neighborhood full of vintage vehicle lovers would be eager to go for a drive by the time the Impala was ready to hit the road. I lifted my cup. “To wonderful cars and good neighbors,” I uttered. Everyone applauded, and while I was surrounded by smiles and lively chatter, it occurred to me that sometimes the greatest restorations involve more than simply automobiles. They also care about the community. How would you have responded in that situation?
My Stepmom Gifted Me a Funerary Urn for My 17th Birthday
As Lila was ready to celebrate her 17th birthday, she received an unexpected and creepy gift from her stepmother: a pink funerary urn. Like the type you keep ashes in? Yes, that’s the one. But that’s not all! Lila learns that her college fund was given to Monica to open her salon. What will Lila do?
Let me tell you, I’ve been sitting on this one for a few days, just trying to make sense of what went down.
I always thought my stepmom, Monica, was the worst, though not Disney villain evil. She was the kind of person who talks over you, forgets your birthday, and calls you “kiddo” when you’re practically an adult.
A smiling teenage girl | Source: Midjourney
But, what she pulled on my 17th birthday? It shattered whatever shaky truce we had.
At least, that’s what I thought. Turns out, things weren’t exactly what they seemed.
Here’s how it all went down.
My mom, Sarah, died when I was ten, and after that, it was just Dad and me. We were a solid team. The type of team that has pizza for dinner half the week, late-night movies, and this unspoken agreement that we’d always have each other’s backs.
Two boxes of pizza on a coffee table | Source: Midjourney
Then came Monica, about three years ago.
At first, she wasn’t horrible; she was just… there. Like a stray cat that never leaves, so you have no choice but to adopt it. Monica moved into our house, took over the bathroom with her fifty bottles of face serums and creams, and slowly pushed her way into my dad’s world.
Monica had big dreams of opening a hair salon, which was fine. I wasn’t against people having dreams. I had my own dreams waiting for me, but she treated me like I was just this annoying piece of furniture that came with the house.
A woman’s vanity | Source: Midjourney
Honestly, I was counting down the days until I could escape to college.
Dad had promised me since middle school that there was a college fund waiting for me.
“Don’t worry, sweet girl,” he told me. “Your mom and I put together the fund when you were five. There’s more than enough, and every year on your birthday and Christmas, I add more.”
A smiling little girl | Source: Midjourney
“Thank you, Dad,” I said. “I just want to study and make something of myself, like Mom said.”
“You only have to worry about your grades, Lila,” he said. “I’ll handle the rest.”
Naturally, I worked my butt off in school, knowing that in a few years, I’d be out of here.
A smiling man | Source: Midjourney
College was my golden ticket, and no one — not even Monica — would stand in my way.
At least, that’s what I thought.
On the morning of my 17th birthday, I came downstairs expecting the usual lukewarm effort. By lukewarm, I mean a sad card, some pancakes, and Monica forgetting my favorite syrup. Dad was at work, so it was just Mon and I.
A plate of pancakes and a card on a table | Source: Midjourney
She handed me a gift bag, which was already weird because Monica wasn’t exactly the thoughtful or sentimental type.
“Happy Birthday, kiddo,” she said, flashing one of her tight-lipped smiles.
I wasn’t expecting much, but I sure as hell wasn’t expecting this.
I reached inside the bag and pulled out… an urn.
A shocked teenage girl | Source: Midjourney
A funerary urn.
You know, the kind that people store ashes in. Cold, heavy, and, well, pink. It was pink.
I just stared at it, my brain short-circuiting.
“What the hell is this?” I asked, holding the urn like it was cursed.
A pink funerary urn | Source: Midjourney
Monica leaned against the kitchen counter, smug as ever.
“It’s symbolic,” she said as if that explained anything.
“Symbolic of what?”
Monica’s grin widened.
A smiling woman in a kitchen | Source: Midjourney
“It’s time to bury your dreams of college, kiddo. Your dad and I talked about this, and we decided to put the college fund to better use.”
“Better use?” I asked, a cold shiver running through me.
“Yep. We’re investing it in my hair salon. College is a gamble, Lila. A business? That’s something real, sweetie.”
A hair salon being renovated | Source: Midjourney
She sipped her coffee like she’d just said the most reasonable thing in the world.
I was frozen in place, trying to make sense of what I’d just heard. Had they really taken my future, everything I’d worked for, and sunk it into Monica’s salon dream?
“How could you do this?” I whispered.
Monica just smiled, a little too pleased with herself.
A shocked teenage girl | Source: Midjourney
“Life’s full of disappointments, kiddo. Better get used to it now,” she said.
Wow.
That was it. I was done. I ran upstairs, slamming the door behind me so hard that the walls shook.
I cried so hard it hurt. What else could I do? Everything I had been holding onto was gone, and the only person I thought I could count on, Dad, had let this happen.
An upset teenage girl | Source: Midjourney
My mom wanted me to get out and make something of myself. And now? It was all over.
The next few days were a blur. I didn’t speak to Monica or my dad unless I absolutely had to. Every time I looked at that stupid urn sitting on my desk, my stomach twisted.
I couldn’t even bring myself to throw it out. It felt like some kind of morbid evidence. Like proof of the betrayal I didn’t see coming.
A pink funerary urn on a desk | Source: Midjourney
At school, my friends tried to cheer me up.
“Maybe she thought it was funny, Lila,” my friend Kira said. “Like, who really knows what Monica is thinking?”
“And anyway, there’s nothing stopping you from throwing it out! Just do it! Don’t overthink it,” Mel said.
Three teenage girls | Source: Midjourney
But still, I couldn’t focus on anything other than the fact that Monica was prancing around, acting like she was the queen of the house, while I sat there with no future.
Then, a few days later, something strange happened.
When I got home from school, there was a note on my desk. Not in an envelope, just folded, with my name written in Monica’s messy handwriting.
A woman sitting on a couch | Source: Midjourney
Meet me at the salon at 6 P.M. tonight. No questions. Just trust me. -M.
I almost laughed out loud. Trust her? Yeah, right.
But something about the note gnawed at me. Maybe it was the fact that I wanted to confront her one last time, tell her exactly what I thought of her.
Against my better judgment, I decided to go.
A note on a table | Source: Midjourney
When I got to the salon, the lights were off, and the front door was unlocked.
I hesitated for a second, wondering if this was some elaborate prank. But curiosity got the best of me.
I stepped inside, and there they were. Monica and my dad, standing side by side, both grinning widely.
“Surprise!” Monica shouted, throwing her arms up like this was the happiest moment of her life.
The entrance to a salon | Source: Midjourney
I just stared at them, completely lost.
“What is this?”
Monica stepped aside, and that’s when I saw it — a shiny, brand-new sign mounted on the wall.
Dream Cuts: A Scholarship Fund in Honor of Sarah
I blinked, feeling like the room was tilting on its axis.
A hair salon | Source: Midjourney
“What… what is this?”
Monica smiled, but it wasn’t her usual smug grin. This one was softer, almost real.
“We didn’t use your college fund, kiddo. It’s all still there. The salon? It’s not just for me. It’s for you, too. For other kids like you, too.”
I couldn’t breathe.
A smiling woman | Source: Midjourney
“But then, why would you make me think otherwise?” I asked.
Monica winced, putting her hand on her head.
“Yeah, so, the urn thing… That was not my best idea. I thought it’d be motivational, like, bury the past and embrace the future. You know? But it turns out that it was just creepy.”
A woman with her hand on her head | Source: Midjourney
I stared at her, speechless.
My dad stepped forward, wrapping an arm around my shoulder.
“We’ve been planning this for months, Lila,” he said. “Your mom always wanted to help kids get to college. This salon is going to fund scholarships. For you and for others in her name.”
“The salon has been my dream, Lila,” Monica said. “But it was never going to come at your expense. This way, a great portion of all our profits in the future will go to the fund.”
A smiling man | Source: Midjourney
I didn’t know what to say.
Or what to think.
Just that I felt a warm haze take over me.
Monica laughed softly.
“I’m not a monster, darling,” she said. “I just didn’t want you to think that I was trying to take over your mom’s role.”
A smiling woman | Source: Midjourney
For the first time in a long time, I smiled.
It wasn’t perfect, but things with Monica probably never would be. But, at that moment, standing in the middle of a salon named for my mom’s dream, I realized that she wasn’t trying to ruin my life.
She was trying to build something bigger than any of us.
A smiling teenage girl | Source: Midjourney
And somehow, against all odds, it felt like a new beginning.
And yeah, I kept the urn. But I planted white peace lilies in it, thinking it would be symbolic after all. And who knows, maybe I’ll take the urn to college.
What would you have done?
Peace lilies planted into a pink funerary urn | Source: Midjourney
If you enjoyed this story, here’s another one for you |
I Transferred $24K to My Daughter for Her College Tuition, Only to Discover She Never Enrolled — What She Spent It On Made Me Pale
Caroline had been saving for her daughter’s college fund since Angela was born. But after a classmate of Angela’s reveals that Angela is not actually enrolled in college, Caroline must uncover what her daughter is doing and what she used the money for.
Children are always going to break your heart. This was something that I learned the hard way after trusting my daughter, Angela, completely.
A close-up of a smiling girl | Source: Midjourney
Since Angela was born, I have been saving for college. I needed to know that irrespective of what life threw my way, I would be able to educate my child.
“I think you can wait until she’s a little older,” my husband, Holden, said. “We can do it together.”
“You can add to her college fund later,” I said, looking at my baby girl. “But I’m going to start from next month. I wasn’t able to study, Holden. And it was because we didn’t have the opportunity to do so. Angela is going to get that opportunity.”
A smiling baby girl | Source: Midjourney
“Okay, Caroline,” my husband said. “You start it now, and I’ll add to it in a year. The house will be paid off, and I’ll be able to put that money into the fund.”
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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