When I was a freshman in college I was approached by a friend of a friend to help her rent a car. She claimed they needed a credit card to be on the account in case of damage. Turned out that she was still under 21 and couldn’t rent the car herself, which was why she needed someone older or with a card on file.
I didn’t think much of it. She was bubbly, kind of loud, had that natural charm that made you trust her even if you didn’t know why. Her name was Kendra. She said it’d only be for a weekend trip, nothing fancy, just heading out of town for a wedding. I figured, “What’s the worst that could happen?”
I let her use my credit card, went with her to the rental place, signed the documents, and watched her drive off with a car that I technically was responsible for. I even laughed a little, thinking I’d done something cool, something “college,” like I was part of a bigger adult world.
Then I didn’t hear from her.
For three days, no calls, no texts, nothing. When I tried reaching out, her number was suddenly “no longer in service.” I called the friend who introduced us—Micah—and he just said, “Weird, she was supposed to be back yesterday.” That was it.
On the fifth day, I got a call from the rental company. The car was found abandoned three cities over, with scratches all over the side, a busted headlight, and an empty tank. They asked me to come in immediately.
My stomach sank.
The damages were over $1,200, and my card was automatically charged because I’d signed the papers. My bank account went negative, and I had no idea how to even begin looking for her. I filed a police report, but since I had willingly rented the car, they told me it wasn’t a criminal case. More like a civil issue. “Good luck with that,” one officer even said, almost mockingly.
I was nineteen. Broke. Embarrassed. Angry.
I had to pick up two part-time jobs—late-night shift at a gas station and weekend shifts at a bookstore—to pay off the card. For a while, I couldn’t even afford meals on campus. I ate crackers and peanut butter for lunch, skipped breakfast most days, and stopped going out with friends. I became quiet, withdrawn.
But here’s the thing.
Working those two jobs forced me to grow up fast. At the gas station, I met a guy named Darren who was saving up for his mother’s surgery. He had a calmness about him that balanced out my anger. At the bookstore, I met a retired teacher named Miss Janice who volunteered there just because she loved books and people. She’d bring me muffins and tea, sensing that I wasn’t eating well.
They became like my anchor.
Darren taught me how to let go of resentment, saying, “Some people are just here to teach us lessons, even if it’s the hard way.” Miss Janice encouraged me to write about what happened, saying, “You’ve got a story in you. Might as well make it worth something.”
And so I started journaling. Every night after my shifts, I’d sit by the dorm window and write what I felt. Sometimes it was just rage. Other times it was gratitude. Eventually, the writing helped me process everything. I stopped blaming myself as much.
About six months later, I was at the grocery store when I saw her—Kendra.
She had her back to me, arguing with the cashier about a return. I froze. My heart raced. I didn’t know whether to confront her or just leave. But something in me said: No. You deserve closure.
I waited until she walked outside, then followed her to the parking lot.
“Kendra,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
She turned, and for a second, she didn’t recognize me. Then her face shifted—recognition, then guilt, then that fake cheer she always had.
“Oh my God, hey! Long time—”
“Don’t,” I said. “You know what you did.”
She sighed, then said something I didn’t expect: “I’m sorry.”
Just like that.
She admitted she panicked. Said she was behind on school payments, desperate, and needed the car to help a guy she was dating move to another city. He ended up ghosting her, and she ditched the car, figuring the rental company would just “handle it.”
She claimed she didn’t have the money to pay me back but wanted to. She gave me her new number and said, “I know it doesn’t fix it, but I’m not that person anymore.”
I didn’t believe her. But I kept the number.
Weeks passed. Then one day, I got a message from her. It was a screenshot of a Venmo transfer—$100. Then another the next week. Every month, for nearly a year, she paid me back in chunks. Sometimes only $25, sometimes $150 when she could.
It wasn’t about the money anymore.
What mattered was that she tried.
Eventually, we met up again. Not as friends, but more like… people who shared a strange chapter in each other’s lives. She told me she’d dropped out of college for a while, worked retail, started going to therapy, and was trying to fix the bridges she’d burned.
“I don’t expect forgiveness,” she said. “But I do want to stop running.”
And you know what? I respected that.
We didn’t become close. But I did forgive her. Not for her—but for me.
By then, I had paid off the credit card, saved a little extra, and even gotten a scholarship based on an essay I’d written about resilience. The essay? It was my journal story. Miss Janice helped me edit it. Darren read it and said, “Now that’s how you make lemonade.”
Fast forward three years, and life looks completely different now.
I’m in my final year of college. I’m interning at a nonprofit that helps students from low-income backgrounds understand credit, contracts, and basic financial literacy—something I really could’ve used back then.
And here’s the twist I never saw coming.
Last month, I got an email from the scholarship board. They were creating a new annual fund for students who had overcome financial challenges during their education. They asked if I’d let them name it after the essay I’d written: “The Favor That Nearly Ruined Me.”
I laughed out loud. Then I cried.
That dumb mistake? That naive moment? It had turned into something that would help other students avoid what I went through.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. The car that nearly drove me off a cliff (figuratively) had ended up steering my life into a better direction.
And guess who showed up at the scholarship ceremony? Kendra.
She stood quietly at the back, didn’t make a scene, just clapped when my name was called. Afterward, she came up to me and said, “I applied for a night school program. Your story helped me realize I’m not broken forever.”
Sometimes, life throws us people who seem like disasters at first glance. But every now and then, they’re just mirrors showing us where we need to grow.
I still think about those peanut butter crackers I used to eat in silence, and how even though I was hungry and bitter, I was learning.
Learning how to survive.
Learning how to forgive.
Learning how to take a mistake and turn it into a stepping stone.
So here’s the lesson I’ll leave you with:
Not every betrayal ends in bitterness. Some end in breakthrough. If you’ve ever been used, lied to, or left behind—just know it might one day be the very thing that builds your story. That refines your heart. That gives you something worth telling the world.
And hey, maybe someone out there needs to hear your story too.
If this reminded you of anything you’ve been through—or gave you a bit of hope—like it, share it, and pass it on.
You never know who’s sitting in silence, trying to survive off crackers and broken trust, just waiting for a reason to believe again.
