PART 2 — THE SUMMER THEY TRIED TO TAKE MY CAR
The first time Chloe called my Mustang “our car,” I laughed because I thought she was joking.
She wasn’t.
It happened at Sunday dinner three months after she and Mark got married.
We were sitting on my back patio, eating burgers while Chloe scrolled through her phone.
Without looking up, she said, “We should take the car to Vermont next month.”
I glanced at Mark.
“Which car?”
She finally looked at me.
“The Mustang.”
I smiled.
“You mean my Mustang?”
Chloe gave a small laugh.
“You know what I mean.”
At the time, I let it go.
That became a habit.
Chloe would say something irritating.
Mark would look uncomfortable.
I would decide it wasn’t worth turning dinner into an argument.
That was how small things became bigger things.
By the following summer, Chloe had started posting photographs of the Mustang online.
Not photographs with me.
Photographs of herself sitting behind the wheel.
Leaning against the hood.
Holding coffee beside it.
One caption read:
Weekend drives in our baby.
Another said:
Nothing better than owning a little piece of history.
I saw the posts because one of my neighbors showed me.
“You sold the Mustang?” he asked.
“No.”
He looked confused.
“Oh.
Your daughter-in-law made it sound like it was hers.”
That bothered me.
But again, I said nothing.
Mark was happy.
At least I thought he was.
And after losing Sarah, I had learned to value peace.
Maybe too much.
So when Mark called that June afternoon and told me not to use the Mustang all summer, I initially assumed I had misheard him.
“Say that again.”
He sighed.
“Dad, Chloe and I want to use the car this summer.”
“That’s fine.”
“No, I mean… exclusively.”
I stared at the Mustang.
It sat under the garage lights, deep red paint shining like wine.
“Exclusively?”
“Just for a couple months.”
“Why?”
“We’ve been stressed.”
“Then take a vacation.”
“That’s what we’re trying to do.”
I almost laughed.
“You have two cars.”
“They’re not the same.”
“No,” I said.
“They aren’t.”
Silence.
Then Mark said, “Chloe already planned some trips.”
“With my car?”
Another pause.
“Dad, you barely drive it.”
That sentence hurt more than it should have.
Because it wasn’t true.
I drove the Mustang every Sunday morning.
Sometimes I would take it along the old highway Sarah and I used when Mark was little.
I would stop at the diner outside Mill Creek, order coffee, and sit by the window.
Driving that car was not transportation.
It was memory.
“Mark,” I said carefully, “you are welcome to borrow it.
You always have been.
But you don’t get to reserve it for an entire summer.”
He lowered his voice.
“Chloe knew you’d make this difficult.”
There it was.
Not we thought.
Not I thought.
Chloe.
I leaned against my workbench.
“What exactly did Chloe say?”
“Nothing.”
“Mark.”
“She just thinks… since the car will eventually be mine anyway, maybe we shouldn’t have to ask every time.”
I went completely still.
“Eventually be yours?”
He realized too late how ugly that sounded.
“Dad, that’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
“Then explain it.”
He struggled for words.
I could hear Chloe in the background.
I couldn’t make out what she said.
Then Mark covered the phone and answered her.
That made something inside me harden.
Not anger.
Not yet.
Disappointment.
When he returned, his voice had changed.
“Can we not do this?”
“You called me.”
“I’m just asking you to be reasonable.”
I looked toward Sarah’s photograph.
She was standing beside the Mustang during the first year of restoration.
Back when it had no doors and half an engine.
She had been thin from treatment.
Her head wrapped in a blue scarf.
Still smiling.
“I am being reasonable,” I said.
Then I hung up.
Two days later, Mark came to the house.
He brought Chloe.
That told me everything.
They didn’t come to talk.
They came to pressure me.
Chloe walked into the kitchen wearing sunglasses on top of her head.
“Hi, Daniel.”
She only called me Daniel when she was annoyed.
“Coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
Mark didn’t sit.
Neither did Chloe.
I poured myself a cup anyway.
Chloe crossed her arms.
“So, apparently there’s confusion about the Mustang.”
“No confusion on my side.”
Mark closed his eyes briefly.
“Dad.”
I looked at Chloe.
“What exactly do you want?”
She seemed surprised by the directness.
Then she smiled.
“We want to use it this summer.”
“That’s what Mark said.”
“We have several trips planned.”
“Then you should have asked me before planning them around a car you don’t own.”
Her smile disappeared.
“We assumed family could share.”
“I share it.”
“No, Daniel.
You control it.”
The word hit strangely.
I took a slow sip of coffee.
“Yes.”
She blinked.
“Yes?”
“I control it because it belongs to me.”
Mark stepped between us emotionally, if not physically.
“Dad, nobody’s saying otherwise.”
“She just did.”
Chloe stared at me.
Then she said something I still remember word for word.
“You’re treating that car like it matters more than your family.”
I set the cup down.
Carefully.
“You didn’t know Sarah.”
Chloe rolled her eyes slightly.
I noticed.
Mark noticed too.
His face changed.
“Chloe.”
“What?”
“Don’t.”
She looked between us.
“I’m not insulting anyone.”
“You rolled your eyes.”
“Oh my God.”
She grabbed her purse.
“This is exactly what I mean.
Everything comes back to the dead car and the dead wife.”
The room went silent.
Mark whispered, “Chloe.”
She froze.
Even she knew she had crossed something.
I looked at her.
“Leave.”
“Daniel—”
“Leave my house.”
Mark stepped toward me.
“Dad, she didn’t mean—”
“She said it.”
Chloe grabbed Mark’s arm.
“Fine.
Let’s go.”
They left without another word.
I stood in the kitchen for ten minutes after the front door closed.
Then I walked into the garage.
I sat in the driver’s seat.
My hand rested on the wooden shift knob Sarah had made.
For the first time in years, I cried inside that car.
Not because Chloe had insulted me.
Because Mark had let her.
Three days passed.
No phone call.
Then five.
Then nine.
I started believing maybe the silence was good.
Maybe they needed space.
Maybe I did too.
On the tenth morning, I opened my garage and found the Mustang missing.
For several seconds, my brain refused to understand what I was seeing.
The empty space looked wrong.
I stared at the concrete floor.
Then at the hook beside the door.
The spare key was gone.
My hands began shaking.
I called Mark.
No answer.
I called again.
Nothing.
Then I called Chloe.
Straight to voicemail.
I opened social media.
And there it was.
Posted twenty-two minutes earlier.
A photograph of Chloe standing beside my Mustang at a gas station.
Sunglasses.
Big smile.
One hand on the hood.
Caption:
Road trip begins.
Some people just need to learn how to share.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
Something inside me snapped.
Not violently.
Quietly.
Like a rope finally breaking after too much weight.
I called the police.
The officer on the phone asked whether the person had permission to take the vehicle.
“No.”
“Do they have access to the keys?”
“They stole the spare.”
“Do you know who took it?”
“Yes.”
“Relationship?”
“My son.”
There was a pause.
That was the hardest part.
Saying it.
My son.
The boy I taught to ride a bicycle.
The teenager who cried after failing his driving test.
The young man who held my hand at Sarah’s funeral because I couldn’t stand.
My son had taken my car after I explicitly told him no.
The officer said they could file a stolen vehicle report.
I hesitated.
Then I said, “Do it.”
Twenty minutes later, Mark finally called.
“What did you do?”
No hello.
No apology.
“What did I do?”
“The police called me.”
“Good.”
“Dad!”
“You stole my car.”
“I borrowed it.”
“After I said no.”
Mark exhaled sharply.
“Chloe said you’d cool down once we left.”
I laughed.
I couldn’t help it.
“She said that?”
“Yes.”
“So this was her idea.”
“No.
We both decided.”
That hurt more.
I walked into the garage and looked at the empty space.
“Bring the car home.”
“We’re two hours away.”
“Turn around.”
“Dad, we booked a hotel.”
“That is not my problem.”
“Can you stop being dramatic?”
I went silent.
Mark kept talking.
“It’s a car.”
“No,” I said.
“What?”
“It stopped being about the car the moment you took it.”
Another silence.
Then Chloe’s voice in the background.
“What’s he saying?”
Mark responded, “He wants us to come back.”
She laughed.
Actually laughed.
Then she said loudly enough for me to hear:
“He’ll get over it.”
I said, “Put me on speaker.”
“What?”
“Put me on speaker.”
A click.
Chloe said, “Daniel, this is getting ridiculous.”
I spoke calmly.
“If the Mustang is not in my driveway by six o’clock tonight, I will continue with the stolen vehicle report.”
“You would have your own son arrested?”
“If necessary.”
Mark shouted, “Dad!”
I closed my eyes.
Sarah would have hated this.
Not the boundary.
The situation.
The family breaking apart over entitlement.
I whispered, “Bring my car home.”
Then I hung up.
At 5:41 p.m., I heard the Mustang.
The engine turned onto my street.
I stepped outside.
Mark was driving.
Chloe sat beside him.
They parked.
Neither got out immediately.
Then Chloe opened the passenger door.
She slammed it.
Mark stepped out more slowly.
He tossed the keys toward me.
I caught them.
Chloe stared at me.
“Happy?”
I looked past her.
At the car.
Something was wrong.
The passenger-side mirror was scratched.
Not deeply.
But enough.
I walked around the Mustang.
There was another scratch along the rear panel.
My stomach tightened.
“What happened?”
Mark rubbed his forehead.
“Nothing.”
“This wasn’t here.”
“We parked near some bushes.”
“Bushes?”
Chloe scoffed.
“It’s barely noticeable.”
I looked at her.
“Get off my property.”
Mark sighed.
“Dad, please.”
“No.”
Chloe stepped toward me.
“You’re unbelievable.”
I looked at my son.
“Give me the house key.”
He froze.
“What?”
“The spare key to my house.”
“Why?”
“You used it to enter the garage.”
His face changed.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
Chloe grabbed his arm.
“Don’t give it to him.”
I stared at her.
Mark slowly reached into his pocket.
Removed the key.
Placed it in my palm.
His eyes were wet.
“Mom would hate what you’re doing.”
That sentence nearly destroyed me.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
Then I looked at him.
“No.”
My voice shook.
“Your mother would hate what you did.”
Mark flinched.
He turned away.
They left.
That evening, I changed every lock in the house.
For the next month, Mark did not call.
Neither did Chloe.
I told myself I could live with that.
But fathers lie to themselves.
Every time my phone rang, I hoped it was him.
Every Sunday, I drove the Mustang alone.
I kept imagining Mark beside me as a teenager.
Laughing.
Grinding the gears.
Sarah shouting from the porch, “Don’t destroy the clutch!”
Those memories made the silence worse.
Then, one afternoon in August, my attorney called.
“Daniel, did you authorize a title transfer on the Mustang?”
I almost dropped the phone.
“What?”
“A title transfer request was submitted two weeks ago.”
My chest tightened.
“To whom?”
He hesitated.
“Mark.”
The room became very quiet.
“That’s impossible.”
“I thought so too.”
“Who signed it?”
“You did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Daniel…”
“I did not sign anything.”
He emailed me a copy.
I opened it.
There was my name.
Daniel Harris.
My signature.
Except it wasn’t mine.
It was close.
Very close.
But the final stroke on the H curved the wrong direction.
Sarah always teased me about that strange little hook in my signature.
The forged version missed it.
I stared at the document.
Then I saw the witness.
Chloe Harris.
My daughter-in-law.
My hands went cold.
I called Mark immediately.
He answered after three rings.
“Dad?”
“Did you try to transfer the Mustang into your name?”
Silence.
That told me everything.
“Mark.”
“It wasn’t supposed to happen yet.”
I stood.
“What does that mean?”
“Chloe handled the paperwork.”
“You forged my signature?”
“No!”
“Then who did?”
Another silence.
I already knew.
“Mark.”
“She said it was just to simplify things.”
I laughed once.
There was nothing funny in it.
“Simplify what?”
“Inheritance.”
The word landed like a stone.
“What inheritance?”
“You’re sixty-eight, Dad.”
For a second I forgot how to breathe.
He rushed on.
“I don’t mean anything by that.
But Chloe said it made sense to start organizing things.”
“Organizing my property while I’m alive?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?”
“She thought—”
“I don’t care what Chloe thought.”
My voice finally rose.
“What did you think?”
Mark said nothing.
That silence answered me more clearly than words ever could.
I sat down.
Then I asked the question I was afraid to ask.
“What else?”
“What?”
“What else have you tried to transfer?”
“Nothing.”
“Mark.”
“Nothing.”
He sounded sincere.
That frightened me.
Because I suddenly realized something.
If Mark didn’t know everything Chloe had done…
Then maybe the Mustang was only the beginning.
I called my attorney back.
“Check everything.”
“Everything?”
“House deed.
Bank accounts.
Insurance.
Retirement accounts.
Anything with my signature.”
For two days, we searched.
The results made me sick.
Someone had attempted to change the beneficiary on one life insurance policy.
From Mark alone.
To Mark and Chloe jointly.
A request had also been submitted to add Mark as an authorized user on one investment account.
That request had been rejected because the signature did not match.
Then my attorney found something worse.
A quitclaim deed.
My house.
The home Sarah and I had bought thirty-one years earlier.
A document existed transferring partial ownership to Mark.
Again, it carried my signature.
Again, forged.
But this one had already been filed.
I stared at the screen.
“They own part of my house?”
My attorney answered carefully.
“It appears Mark may legally be listed as a co-owner until we challenge it.”
I felt physically ill.
I called Mark.
No answer.
I called again.
Nothing.
Then Chloe called me.
Her voice was perfectly calm.
“Daniel.”
“You forged my signature.”
“Be careful what you accuse people of.”
“My attorney has the documents.”
A pause.
Then she laughed softly.
“You always were dramatic.”
“You tried to take my house.”
“No.”
She sounded irritated now.
“We were protecting our future.”
“From what?”
“You.”
I could barely speak.
“From me?”
“You make emotional decisions.”
“The Mustang is mine.”
“You’re obsessed with a dead woman and a thirty-year-old car.”
I closed my eyes.
“Don’t talk about Sarah.”
“You see?
This is exactly the problem.”
Then Chloe said something I would never forget.
“Mark deserves something after spending his whole life dealing with your grief.”
That sentence burned.
Not because it was true.
Because she had weaponized every painful year of my life.
I whispered, “Where is my son?”
“He doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“Put him on.”
“No.”
“Chloe.”
“No.”
Then I heard something.
Very faint.
A voice in the background.
Mark.
He said, “Who are you talking to?”
Chloe answered quickly.
“Nobody.”
Nobody.
I almost laughed.
Then she hung up.
That was when I realized Mark might not know she was calling me.
And suddenly, the situation looked different.
I had been treating them as a team.
What if they weren’t?
That evening, someone knocked on my door.
It was Mark.
He looked terrible.
Unshaven.
Exhausted.
He stood on the porch holding a manila folder.
“Can I come in?”
I said nothing.
He looked at me.
“Please.”
I stepped aside.
He entered the house.
For the first time since childhood, he looked afraid inside it.
We sat at the kitchen table.
He placed the folder between us.
“Dad, I didn’t know about the house.”
I stared at him.
“But you knew about the car.”
“Yes.”
“You allowed Chloe to forge my signature.”
“I didn’t think of it like that.”
“How did you think of it?”
He rubbed his face.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“I know.”
His voice cracked.
That surprised me.
Then he pushed the folder toward me.
“I found these in Chloe’s desk.”
Inside were copies of financial documents.
My insurance.
My property records.
My retirement estimates.
Even my medical history.
I stared at him.
“How did she get these?”
“I don’t know.”
Then I found something else.
A printed email.
The sender’s name meant nothing to me.
The subject line did.
RE: Daniel Harris — projected asset transfer timeline
My blood turned cold.
I read the message.
Most of it was financial language.
Then one sentence stopped me.
If D.H. becomes medically incapacitated, transfer can proceed considerably faster.
I looked at Mark.
“What is this?”
His face was pale.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re her husband.”
“I said I don’t know.”
“Who is she emailing?”
“A man named Victor Lane.”
“Who is Victor Lane?”
“I don’t know.”
Mark reached across the table.
“Dad, listen to me.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“I think Chloe married me because of you.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“I think she knew about the house.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“She knew about the investments?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I don’t know!”
He stood abruptly.
“She knew things before I ever told her.”
He started pacing.
“I thought I’d mentioned them.
Or maybe she saw paperwork.
I never questioned it.”
Then he stopped.
“There’s something else.”
I waited.
Mark pulled out his phone.
He showed me an old photograph.
Chloe.
Much younger.
Standing beside another woman.
I stared at the image.
Something about the woman’s face felt familiar.
“Who is she?”
“Chloe’s mother.”
I looked closer.
My stomach dropped.
I knew her.
I had not seen her in thirty years.
But I knew her.
“Her name wasn’t Lane, was it?”
Mark’s eyes widened.
“How did you know?”
I stood.
The room seemed to tilt.
Her name had been Rebecca Lane.
She had worked with Sarah.
Before Mark was born.
And twenty-nine years ago, Rebecca had been fired after being accused of stealing money from the company where Sarah worked.
The person who discovered the theft had been Sarah.
Mark whispered, “Dad?”
I barely heard him.
Rebecca had blamed Sarah for destroying her life.
For months afterward, she sent angry letters.
Then she disappeared.
And now her daughter was married to my son.
I looked back at the printed email.
Victor Lane.
Lane.
Not coincidence.
Family.
“What does Chloe’s mother do now?”
Mark shook his head.
“She died.”
“When?”
“Four years ago.”
“How?”
“Cancer.”
The word hit me strangely.
I sat down.
Then I noticed handwriting at the bottom of the email printout.
Not Chloe’s.
Not Mark’s.
Three words.
Finish what Rebecca started.
I felt the hair rise on my arms.
Mark whispered, “Dad…”
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
Nobody spoke.
Then a man’s voice said,
“Mr.
Harris?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Victor Lane.”
Mark heard the name and froze.
The voice continued.
“You don’t know me.”
I looked at the document on the table.
“I think I do.”
Victor chuckled softly.
“No.
You know my sister.”
“Rebecca.”
Silence.
Then:
“You remember.”
“What do you want?”
“To warn you.”
I frowned.
“About Chloe?”
“No.”
I looked at Mark.
Victor spoke more quietly.
“Chloe is dangerous, but she’s not the person you should be afraid of.”
My heart started beating harder.
“Then who?”
Another pause.
And then Victor said the one thing I never expected.
“Your son.”
I looked at Mark.
He stood across the kitchen staring at me.
Victor continued.
“Ask Mark what happened the night Sarah died.”
My entire body went cold.
Mark’s face changed.
Not confusion.
Fear.
I slowly lowered the phone.
“Mark…”
His lips trembled.
“Dad.”
“What happened the night your mother died?”
He backed away from the table.
“I can explain.”
The world seemed to narrow to his face.
Sarah had died after months of cancer treatment.
At least that was what I had always believed.
She had been weak.
She had gone to sleep.
And she had never woken up.
I whispered,
“Explain what?”
Mark began to cry.
Then he said,
“Mom wasn’t supposed to die that night.”
…If you want to know what happened next, please type “YES” and like for more.
Source: Stories of Destiny · Huyen Huyen
