Life has a way of hitting hardest when you’re already down. My neighbor thought she could scam a broke single mom like me by selling a busted car. She pocketed my savings, but karma had other plans.
Three years ago, my world collapsed when my husband Dan died in a highway accident. Overnight, I became a 30‑year‑old widow drowning in bills and grief. To survive, I worked two jobs—serving at Mel’s Diner by day, cleaning offices at night—while my mom cared for my kids, Dora and Ethan.
Last week, my old minivan finally gave out in a grocery store lot, smoke pouring from the hood. I sat behind the wheel, fighting tears, knowing I couldn’t afford another disaster. That’s when Cheryl, my flashy neighbor, strutted over. Always dripping in jewelry and gossip, she smiled: “Car trouble? Lucky for you, I’ve got a Toyota in my garage. Barely driven. My nephew used it for six months before moving.”
She offered it for $2,500—“a steal,” she said. Desperate, I agreed. The next morning, she insisted we meet at dawn before her yoga and brunch date. The car looked fine, started smoothly, and even the AC worked. “Purrs like a kitten,” she bragged. I handed her my emergency fund—money meant for Dora’s school supplies and Ethan’s cleats. Cheryl snatched the cash, grinning.
Twenty‑four hours later, I was stranded on Clover Hill with hazard lights blinking, smoke billowing, and my kids crying. At Murphy’s Auto Shop, Frank the mechanic shook his head: “This engine’s shot. Whoever sold it knew. Metal shavings in the oil, pump failing for months.” Repairs would cost more than the car’s worth. My stomach dropped. Cheryl had scammed me.
I stormed to her house. She opened the door in a silk robe, mimosa in hand. When I accused her, she smirked: “You test drove it. Cash, no returns. That’s how sales work.” Then she slammed the door.
That evening, I returned to Murphy’s to clean out the Toyota. Frank advised, “Always check under the seats.” Curious, I reached under the driver’s seat and pulled out a leather bag. Inside: a thick stack of hundreds—$7,000—and receipts with Cheryl’s name. My heart raced. Karma had delivered.
The next day, Cheryl stormed across the street, panicked. “April, did you find a leather bag? Sentimental papers inside.” I feigned innocence until she admitted it held cash. “That money’s not yours,” she snapped. I smiled sweetly: “No warranties, no returns. Isn’t that what you told me?” Her face went pale.
Later, she called, claiming the money belonged to “serious people” who’d be furious if it vanished. I laughed. “You scammed a single mom, and it backfired. Maybe next time you’ll think twice.” I blocked her number.
Within days, Cheryl’s house went dark. Her car disappeared, newspapers piled up, and a “For Sale” sign appeared on her lawn. Meanwhile, Frank found a buyer for the Toyota’s parts, covering my towing costs and handing me a few hundred. He also connected me with Mr. Martinez, who sold me a reliable Honda at a fair price.
Three weeks later, I was driving my kids to school in that Honda, emergency fund replenished, smiling for the first time in months. Dora asked, “Mommy, why doesn’t Miss Cheryl live across the street anymore?” I glanced at the sign. “Sometimes people have to move when they make bad choices.”
The universe has a way of balancing the scales. Karma doesn’t just knock—it kicks the door down and serves justice with poetic irony.
