My mother had just been released from the hospital and needed help getting settled at home.
She lived almost three hours away, so I told my husband, Kevin, that I would take our SUV for a couple of days.
He frowned.
Then he said, completely seriously, “You need to start paying me when you use my car. Sixty-five dollars a day.”
I actually laughed because I thought he was joking.
He wasn’t.
Kevin reminded me that he had paid the down payment, even though we both contributed to the monthly loan, insurance, and maintenance.
Then he started listing everything I used the car for.
Groceries.
Our son’s school.
Doctor appointments.
Errands.
“My car gets worn out because of you,” he said.
I stared at him.
“So taking care of our family counts as personal use now?”
He shrugged.
I didn’t argue.
I called my friend Melissa, and she drove me to my mother’s house.
I stayed there for two nights.
When I got home, Kevin was furious.
Without me there, he had needed to leave work early to pick up our son, buy groceries, take the dog to an appointment, and handle everything I normally did.
He had also put nearly 150 miles on his precious car doing it.
“This week has been ridiculous,” he complained.
I looked at him.
“Sounds expensive. At your rate, you owe yourself about $130.”
He didn’t laugh.
But something changed after that.
A few days later, he quietly admitted his demand had been selfish.
The $65 rule disappeared.
And strangely enough, so did the phrase “my car.”
After that, it became “our car” again.
