My brother borrowed my BMW once. Just once, for an anniversary dinner with his girlfriend Ashley, who’d been making pointed comments about her ex’s Mercedes. Three months into their relationship, Colin was feeling the pressure of her increasingly less subtle hints about “ambition” and “success.” I felt bad for him, so I tossed him the keys to my M3.
That single act of kindness became the catalyst for the most elaborate lie I’ve ever watched someone construct in real time.
The morning after the dinner, Colin texted: Hey, dinner went amazing. Ashley loved the car.
Mind if I borrow it again Friday? Her sister’s in town.
I said sure, still playing the supportive older brother.
Friday became the next Friday. Then Tuesday for Ashley’s company happy hour. Then Saturday for her friend’s birthday.
By the third week, I finally pushed back.
“Come on, you’re not even using it,” Colin said, his tone shifting from grateful to entitled with remarkable speed. “You literally work from home.
The car just sits in your garage collecting dust.”
“I use it plenty. Groceries, gym, meeting friends—”
“But I actually need it.
Ashley’s co-workers think I’m doing well.
I can’t show up in my Corolla now. They’ve seen me in the BMW.”
“So tell them the truth.”
Colin looked at me like I’d suggested he set himself on fire. “Tell them I borrowed my brother’s car?
That’s humiliating.
Ashley would be mortified.”
The requests evolved from advance planning to same-day notifications. Picking up the BMW at 6 became standard—not a question, a statement.
When I’d mention my own plans, he’d deploy guilt with surgical precision. “Seriously?
I already promised Ashley we’d take her parents to dinner in it.
They’re expecting a nice car. You want me to look like a liar?”
“You could just tell them it’s mine.”
“God, Jason, why do you have to make everything complicated? It’s one night.
Her dad’s a lawyer.
I need to make a good impression.”
The manipulation came wrapped in family obligation. Mom always said family shares.
Must be nice not caring about your brother’s happiness. Ashley thinks you hate her because you won’t help us out.
He started keeping the car longer without asking.
Three-hour dinners became overnights because Ashley had wine. Saturday afternoons became full weekends because we decided to drive to the coast last minute. When I’d complain, he’d flip the script entirely.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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