After my husband Dan died, life as a single mom was brutal—two jobs, bills piling up, kids to care for. Then Cheryl, my flashy neighbor, tricked me into buying a “perfect” used car for $2,500. Twenty-four hours later, it died on me—smoke, grinding noises, the whole nightmare.
At the shop, Frank the mechanic confirmed my fears: the engine was shot, and Cheryl had known all along. Furious, I went to confront her—but when I cleaned out the car, I found a leather bag stuffed with $7,000 she’d left behind.
Cheryl tried to claim it, but I just smiled, walked inside, and locked the door. A week later, her house was empty, her car gone. With a new Honda and my emergency fund intact, life—and my kids—were finally safe again.
