I AM a car – a new model Toyota Carina 212 – dark and shiny with glistening rims, bright lights and a smooth-running engine. The auto sales store advertised me as a classic car, but buyers preferred newer models. Then, one day, months later, a middle-aged gentleman walked into the auto sales store looking for a simple car in excellent condition that he could drive with ease and in comfort.

I liked him from the moment I saw him because he had a pleasant personality and a smooth voice. He did not see me, though, at the spot where I had been shifted to until the car salesman showed him several other models. The moment he stopped by me, he inhaled quietly and put his hand on my hood, saying, “This is it. I like this one.”

My mechanical heart gave me a rev of joy, and that’s how my story started.

I loved every day driving my owner, under his love and care, and I enjoyed those days when his wife, Catherine, travelled with him. She had a sweet voice and a cheerful laugh. They were such a wonderful couple—it warmed my heart. I was there with them as they grew older, a silent witness to their beautiful love story.

Then the unexpected happened!

One late night, a little over a year later, Stephan fell ill and had to be rushed to the hospital. His son, Damien, drove as his father lay in Catherine’s arms, gasping for breath. A surge of fear passed through my metal body, and four hours later, I saw Catherine coming out of the hospital, crying, assisted by Damien, who had a grieved look on his face. As he walked her to me, two other cars pulled up with relatives, and one man drove me home as Damien sat with his mother in the back, comforting her.

I knew my owner had passed away. I knew a good man had gone home and parked in the shadows under the oak trees at the turn of the driveway. I mourned his passing.

Family and friends came and went, but I stayed parked until the day of his funeral when my body was cleaned and polished. I had to take the family—his wife, son and daughter—because they knew how dear I was to him and how much he loved me.

For a long time after the funeral, there was sadness as the family tried to come to terms with his passing.

I missed him so much myself, and though cars don’t cry, my engine, which was my heart, revved with sadness.

A driver was hired to drive me when Catherine needed to go somewhere, which wasn’t often, and Damien and Stephanie drove me sometimes. But another setback happened when Catherine fell ill and had to go overseas for treatment. Stephanie had already left to study overseas, and Damien was busy with his job as a pilot.

Once again, I stayed parked under the oak tree, dust and fallen leaves all over me, and a decision was made to sell me. That broke my heart, for I was with a family I loved. But what could I do? I was just a car – I had no voice, simply at the command of those who drove me.

The dreadful day came when the new owner came for me. Damien seemed hesitant to hand him the keys, but the sale agreement had been signed. He stood there as I was driven out of the yard, a grieved look on his face. I think I saw tears in his eyes, and if I could have cried, I would have. My thoughts as the new owner, a young mixed-race male, drove along the highway were, “If only Stephan hadn’t died.”

I didn’t know how things would be for me now.

And it started off badly!

The young man was driving above the speed limit, and soon the cops stopped him. He was given a speeding ticket that, I could tell, infuriated him from the swear words he used as he drove away. The next stop was at a beer garden, and his friends—happy for him that he had bought a car—poured beers on my clean, shiny hood.

Life became a nightmare for me, with no care nor special love, just a car to drive around. The young man was wild, and after a few accidents—not too serious—I was sold again. This owner, another young man, was worse, for with him, there were drugs, loud music, drinking and other things in the car that made me feel filthy.

That came to an end after a police chase due to criminal elements, and I was hidden in a dark garage for a few months. Strange men worked on my body to change my outlook, and I was sold again.

All the time, I kept hearing my owner Stephan’s voice and felt his gentle hand on my body, and that kept me going.

After a few months and a new outlook, I was sold again, this time to a middle-aged man who had a family. That, for me, was a great relief, and after a long time, I felt safe.

The man’s wife and young children were thrilled that they had a new car. I had a new family, and my new owner loved and cared for me. But things changed when he allowed his friends to drive me, and soon, I was dusty and dirty again. He often expressed his love for me, but he didn’t care for me the way he should have, and the accidents made by his friends left my body bruised, dented and scarred.

His wife, a quiet-spoken woman, was not pleased with what was happening to me. She spoke to my owner, who would haughtily shut her up.

As time went on, I felt sorry for her because she didn’t seem happy, and during many drives, he did not speak to her. That was so different from Stephan, who always talked and laughed with his wife.

Then, one day, when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, he lent me to a friend to work as a private hire taxi on the road. That was where it ended for me, for when I broke down and couldn’t work anymore, my owner never took me back. He gave me to another friend to use for parts, for he had acquired a new company vehicle along with a driver.

That was the day when I should have died—but I didn’t.

I was sitting in a backyard under a huge mango tree, abandoned in the sun, the rain, the falling leaves and rotten fruits, and I wondered, “Could someone from my first family come find me?”

How long I was left there, I didn’t know. Then, one day, I heard a familiar voice, and my mechanical heart revved a beat. A hand touched my hood, a touch I knew so well.

It was Damien—Stephan’s son.

How did he find me?

He was telling the man in whose yard I had been kept, “I will take Bethany home. We made a grave mistake to sell her.”

He brushed away the dust from my hood and said quietly, “I am taking you back home, for it’s my father’s wish.”

I didn’t understand, but I was happy to be going back home to my beloved family. After months of working and putting me back together with new parts and being sprayed over to my original colour, I was ready to return home—spanking new.

Catherine had grown really old, but her charming laughter and the sparkle in her eyes made me so happy. Her daughter chauffeured her out, driving me everywhere she needed to go. Then, months later, one late night, she had to be taken to the hospital. Hours later, Damien and Stephanie returned home alone with me.

That night I understood what Damien meant when he mentioned his father’s wishes, after he said, “Mum had missed you so much, and one night Dad dreamt her and said, ‘Tell Damien to find Bethany.’”

If, as a car, I could have cried, I would have. My mechanical heart filled with joy—for I was home, now with my loving forever family, the car I am.