The responder’s hand moved toward his radio as my father’s confession echoed from the phone.
“I signed your name because I knew you’d be selfish about it.”
For several seconds, no one moved.
Lucas stood beside my pearl-white SUV with his mouth slightly open.
His friend had backed away far enough to make it clear he wanted no part of what was happening.
Diners near the restaurant entrance pretended not to stare, but every face was turned toward us.
The responder looked from the forged vehicle gift form to the original title I had brought from home.
“Sir,” he said toward my phone, “did you just state that you signed your daughter’s name on this document?”
Dad did not recognize the warning in his voice.
He was too angry that someone had finally challenged him.
“I handled the paperwork because she would have dragged this out,” he snapped.
“Lucas needs the vehicle.
Elina doesn’t.
This is a private family decision.”
“Ownership is not a family vote,” the responder said.
Lucas stepped forward.
“He means she agreed verbally.
She told us she would help with the baby.”
I looked at him.
“I offered to drive Jessica to appointments.
I never offered you my SUV.”
“That’s basically the same thing.”
“No,” I said.
“It isn’t.”
The responder raised the gift form.
“And a verbal agreement would not explain why her signature appears here.”
Lucas glanced at the page, then at my phone.
“Dad, stop talking.”
That was the first sensible thing he had said all evening.
Dad ignored him.
“Elina has always been dramatic about money,” he continued.
“I paid for plenty of things when she was growing up.
That vehicle is the least she can do for her brother.”
I felt the old reflex rise inside me—the urge to explain, defend, and present an itemized history of everything I had earned without his help.
I let the urge pass.
The title in the responder’s hand was enough.
