My mother-in-law threw a $20 bill at a gas station cashier and proudly announced she’d “helped me.” From that exact moment, she decided I was her personal chauffeur. And when she pushed me too far, well… let’s just say, karma has a funny way of showing up in the strangest vehicles.
Let me take you through the longest six weeks of my life. I’m Jessica, mom to three wild kids who somehow manage to need three completely different things at the exact same time, every single day.
My husband, Daniel, is in the military, two months deep into a training deployment. That means it’s just me handling the chaos.
I’m juggling 12-hour nursing shifts, school pickups, homework battles, and a four-year-old who genuinely believes she’s a dragon. But the hardest part? It wasn’t the sleep deprivation or the endless laundry. No, the real challenge was dealing with Daniel’s mother, Patricia.
Patricia is the kind of woman who thinks “bless your heart” can soften any insult. She shows up unannounced, critiques your towel-folding skills, and somehow manages to make every conversation about her wisdom. About six weeks ago, she asked me for a favor that seemed small at the time.
“Jessica, dear,” she said sweetly over the phone, dripping with fake charm. “Could you possibly drive me to Linda’s lake cabin? Just two towns over. My car isn’t reliable for long trips.”
I should’ve said no. I really should have. But Daniel’s voice echoed in my head: “Just try to get along with Mom while I’m gone.”
“Of course, Patricia. When do you need to go?” I asked.
“Tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock sharp. Don’t be late.”
The drive started fine. Patricia spent most of the trip talking about Linda’s new deck and how some people just knew how to keep a nice home—unlike certain others, apparently. I gritted my teeth and kept driving.
Then, halfway there, my gas light flickered. “I need to stop for gas,” I said.
“Well, hurry up. We’re already running behind,” she snapped.
We weren’t behind at all. In fact, we were 15 minutes early. But I didn’t argue. I filled up the tank and went inside to pay—only to have Patricia suddenly appear beside me. Without warning, she pushed past me to the counter, pulled a $20 bill from her purse, and tossed it at the cashier.
“There!” she announced loudly. “Don’t say I NEVER help you, Jessica!”
The cashier blinked. I felt my cheeks burn. Patricia stood there, glowing with pride.
“Patricia, you didn’t have to…” I started, but she cut me off.
“Nonsense! I know money’s tight for you young people. Consider it my contribution,” she said, with a smug smile.
I thanked her because what else could I do? Refusing would’ve made the scene even worse. I told myself it was just Patricia being Patricia. Little did I know, I’d just signed an invisible, twisted contract in her eyes.
Three days later, my phone rang at seven a.m.
“Jessica, I need you to drive me to church. The early service. You can pick me up in 20 minutes.”
I was still in pajamas, hadn’t had coffee yet, and the kids were already fighting over the last waffle.
“Patricia, I wasn’t planning to go to church this morning. The kids—”
“Remember, Jessica. I gave you $20 for gas. The least you can do is help me out when I need it.”
And just like that, a simple favor had turned into a full-blown obligation. I sighed and drove her to church.
Two days later: “Jessica, I have a doctor’s appointment at two. You’ll take me, won’t you? Gas isn’t free, you know! I already helped you once.”
I took her to the doctor. The following week, the pharmacy. And after that, the grocery store, visiting friends across town, even random drives for “entertainment.” Each request came with a reminder about that magical $20 bill, as if it had bought my eternal servitude.
My kids started noticing. One night, my eight-year-old Lia whispered, “Mom, what if Grandma gives you another $20? Do we have to drive her everywhere forever?”
I laughed nervously. No, it wasn’t funny. Patricia seemed to think exactly that. Calls got more frequent and more demanding.
“Jessica, there’s a sale at the grocery store. Pick me up in 10 minutes.”
“Jessica, I want to visit Margaret. She lives across town, but that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Jessica, I’m bored. Let’s go for a drive.”
Every attempt to say no was met with:
“After everything I’ve done for you?”
“Daniel would be so disappointed if you refused to help me.”
And Daniel wasn’t there to defend me. He was hundreds of miles away. So I kept driving, biting my tongue, sacrificing my little free time, listening to complaints about my driving, my car, my music, my life.
Then came the night that changed everything.
It was a Tuesday. I’d just finished a brutal 12-hour shift—three emergencies, two angry families yelling about wait times, a broken coffee machine. My feet hurt, my back hurt, my brain hurt. I got home at 12:30 a.m., thanked the babysitter, checked on the kids, and collapsed into bed in my scrubs.
At 12:47 a.m., my phone rang. Panic. Calls at that hour usually meant trouble. But it was Patricia.
“Hello?”
“Jessica,” she said calmly. “I need you to drive me somewhere.”
“What? Patricia, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Oh, I’m fine, dear. I just need you to take me to the 24-hour convenience store.”
I blinked. “It’s almost one in the morning. What… what’s the emergency?”
“I need Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. If I don’t have them, I’ll get a headache and I won’t be able to sleep. You don’t want me to suffer, do you?”
“You want me to drive you… for candy… at one a.m.?”
“Not just candy, Jessica. A medical necessity. And don’t forget, I gave you $20 for gas. The least you can do is help me.”
Something inside me finally stopped. Not snapped. Not broke. Stopped.
“I’ll be there in 15 minutes,” I said automatically.
I left the kids with a neighbor, drove Patricia to the store, waited ten minutes while she browsed for her treats, drove her home, and listened to her complain about how the store had rearranged everything. I got back at 2:15 a.m., stared at the ceiling, and started planning.
The next day, I called my cousin Eddie at his junkyard.
“Eddie, I need a favor. Do you have any cars that run but look like they went through a war?”
He laughed. “Jess, that’s basically my whole inventory. What are you thinking?”
I explained, and he laughed harder. “Perfect. I’ve got just the thing.”
That evening, Patricia called.
“Jessica, I need you to take me to the pharmacy. Eight o’clock. And remember…”
“I remember, Patricia. Twenty dollars isn’t pocket change. I’ll be there at eight.”
At 7:55, I pulled up to Patricia’s house in Eddie’s car. And oh… it was perfect. A faded, rusty sedan, mismatched doors, duct-taped bumper, muffler dragging. Every inch screamed chaos.
I stepped out and waved. “Your ride, ma’am!”
Patricia’s face went through confusion, horror, disgust, rage, and finally sheer terror.
“What on earth is THAT?” she shrieked.
“Oh, this? Borrowed from a friend. Runs great… mostly.” I patted the hood.
She stepped closer, inspecting every dent and crack. “I’m NOT getting in that thing!”
“Why not? Safe. Mostly. Brakes work great. Well… the front ones do.”
“People will see me!” she cried.
“Well, you always say I should budget,” I said sweetly. “Since you were so generous with that $20, thought I’d drive within budget. Hop in!”
The car backfired. Mr. Jones three houses down came running. Patricia’s face was a tomato.
“I’ve changed my mind. No pharmacy tonight!”
I waved. “Okay, just let me know when you need another ride!”
She slammed the door. I got back in the car, muffler dragging, backfiring like fireworks, and drove home grinning.
Patricia hasn’t asked for a ride since. She still calls, but now it’s about taxis or neighbors helping her. She’s careful, like she’s making sure I know she doesn’t need me anymore.
Daniel called the next day, laughing. “Mom said you were driving some death trap!”
“I borrowed it. Temporarily.”
“She said it backfired and woke half the neighborhood.”
“Yep,” I said, grinning. “Best $20 she ever wasted.”
My kids loved it. My six-year-old begged to keep Eddie’s car “because Grandma’s face was priceless.”
Do I feel guilty? Not a bit. Patricia’s $20 wasn’t generosity—it was control. And sometimes, the only way to set boundaries is with a car that screams: You don’t get to manipulate me anymore.
That rusty car? Best boundary I’ve ever set.