I’ve always been the sister who says yes. The one who drops everything when family calls, no matter what I’m doing. Maybe that’s my biggest flaw.
Three months ago, I had surgery. It wasn’t life-threatening, but it was serious enough that my doctor gave me a stern look and wagged his finger.
“One month of rest, Rebecca. No driving until you heal. No working. Just rest.”
I nodded, because what choice did I have?
Two days into my recovery, my phone rang. It was my older sister Kathy. The second I heard her voice, I knew she wanted something. It cracked through the line like broken glass.
“Becky, I’m totally screwed. My car just died on me.”
I shifted on the couch, wincing as the stitches in my side pulled. “What happened?”
“The mechanic says I need a new transmission. Three thousand dollars. I don’t even have three hundred in my checking account.”
She went quiet, letting the silence stretch between us.
Then came the real reason for her call. “Becky, I hate to ask this, but… could I maybe borrow your car? Just until mine’s fixed?”
I glanced out the window. My Honda sat in the driveway like a loyal dog waiting for me. I hadn’t touched it in days.
“Of course,” I said without thinking.
“What? Really? You’d actually let me borrow it?”
“You’re my sister, Kathy. I’m stuck here for another month. The car’s just sitting there collecting dust.”
Her tone softened, almost childlike—just like when we were kids and she wanted something. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.”
“Dead serious. Just take care of it like it’s yours, okay?”
“I will. I swear on Mom’s grave, I will. God, Becky, you’re literally saving my life right now.”
For the next four weeks, it actually seemed fine. She even took me to a doctor’s appointment once.
“See?” she said after pulling back into my driveway. “This works perfectly. You help me, I help you. Win-win.”
I noticed she had adjusted my mirrors and switched my radio to some bubblegum pop station I couldn’t stand, but I let it go. Family helps family, I told myself.
The fourth week came with good news—at least, at first. Kathy burst into my house, car keys jingling like Christmas bells.
“Guess what? My car’s ready! They found a used transmission that won’t completely bankrupt me.”
I smiled, not just for her sake, but because I could finally have my car back. I had a huge job interview at Morrison & Associates the next morning—a position I’d been chasing for months.
“That’s wonderful,” I told her.
She dropped my keys onto the kitchen counter that night with a loud clink. “Thanks again, little sis. You literally saved my life. I owe you big time.”
The next morning, sunlight streamed through my curtains. My best blazer was pressed and ready, my résumé crisp as new paper. This interview meant everything. Three months without a paycheck had drained my savings to nothing.
I grabbed my keys and portfolio, practically skipping to my car.
I turned the key. The engine coughed, sputtered—and died.
I froze. Tried again. Same thing. A horrible rattling noise, then silence.
Panic surged through me. I called Kathy, my hands shaking.
“Hey there!” she answered, cheerful as ever.
“My car won’t start! Did something happen while you had it?”
“Um… maybe it’s out of gas?”
“Out of gas?!” I repeated, my voice rising.
“Yeah, I didn’t fill it up last night. I figured you’d take care of that yourself.”
My chest tightened. “Kathy, my interview is in one hour.”
“Oh. Right. That’s today?” she said, as if it were news to her.
“I told you three times this week!”
“Okay, okay, don’t freak out. Just get an Uber or something.”
“Do you have any idea how much that’ll cost me?”
“Look, I can’t change it now. Just figure it out.”
She hung up.
By the time a rideshare arrived, I was already thirty minutes late. The receptionist at Morrison & Associates gave me a polite but icy smile.
“I’m so sorry,” I explained. “My car—”
“Ms. Morrison had to leave for another appointment. We’ll be moving forward with the other candidates.”
Just like that, months of hope evaporated.
When Dad came home that afternoon, he found me at the kitchen table with my head in my hands. I told him everything—about the empty tank, the missed interview, and Kathy’s careless tone.
His jaw tightened. “I love both my daughters, but Kathy needs to learn what kindness costs. Invite her for dinner tonight.”
Kathy showed up at six sharp, carrying a bunch of daisies like nothing had happened.
“Something smells amazing,” she said, kissing Dad on the cheek.
We sat down to pot roast and potatoes. Kathy chattered happily about work drama and her neighbor’s loud music. It almost felt normal.
Then Dad put down his carving knife. His voice went calm and sharp.
“Kathy, I’ve been thinking about kindness today.”
She smiled. “Oh yeah? What about it?”
“About how your sister lent you her car for a month. No questions asked. No fee. Just generosity. And you brought it back empty.”
Her smile faltered.
“She missed a crucial job interview this morning because of you,” Dad continued. “Because you couldn’t be bothered to put five dollars’ worth of gas in it.”
“I was broke,” Kathy said defensively.
“But you could afford dinner at Romano’s on Tuesday,” Dad shot back. “I saw your Instagram.”
Her mouth opened and closed, but no words came.
Dad left the table and returned with a red gas can. “You’re filling her tank tonight. And you’re paying back every dollar of gas you used.”
“That’s not fair!”
“Fair is returning something in the condition you got it.”
Kathy filled my tank that night in sullen silence. The next day, she shoved an envelope of crumpled twenties into my hand.
“Here’s your precious gas money,” she muttered.
“Thank you,” I said evenly.
She spun around. “You really turned Dad against me over twenty bucks of fuel?”
“No, Kathy. You did that yourself.”
We went back and forth—her saying it was an “honest mistake,” me reminding her she had plenty of chances to do the right thing. By the end, she stormed out without another word.
I used that gas money to get to another interview across town. The hiring manager loved my portfolio. I started the following Monday.
Now my life’s back on track. My savings account isn’t empty. I can breathe again. Kathy and I barely talk, but I’ve learned something priceless: kindness isn’t weakness. And if someone treats it like it is, they’ll find out exactly what it costs.
Dad was right. Some lessons have to be taught the hard way.
And now? I’m still the sister who says yes—but I’m also the sister who never forgets that my kindness has value.