The Price of Accountability
My sister’s son smashed my $8,000 Gibson guitar and laughed. My whole family shrugged and said, “He’s just a child—you’re supposed to forgive.” I said nothing, just nodded. And the next day, I showed them what accountability looks like.
Part One: The Breaking
Labor Day morning arrived the way it always did at my parents’ lakehouse—slow, golden, filled with that particular quality of light that only comes when summer is dying and knows it. I’d driven up from Nashville the night before, guitar case in the passenger seat like a copilot, looking forward to three days of nothing but family, grilled food, and maybe some quiet time on the deck with my Hummingbird.
That guitar. God, that guitar.
A 1975 Gibson Hummingbird in vintage sunburst finish, all original parts, the kind of instrument that session players notice before they notice you. I’d bought it five years ago from an estate sale in Memphis—spent every spare dollar for eight months to make it happen, passed on vacations and new gear and anything else that wasn’t absolutely necessary. It wasn’t just the money, though the money mattered. It was what that guitar represented: commitment, sacrifice, the decision to own something truly excellent instead of settling for good enough.
I’d played it on more than two hundred sessions. Written three albums’ worth of songs on it. Worn my fingerprints into that rosewood fretboard until the wood knew my hands better than most people did. The action was broken in perfectly, the tone had matured like wine, and every time I opened that case, I felt a small surge of pride that I’d managed to own something this beautiful.
That morning, I’d carried it out to the deck around seven, before anyone else was awake. The lake was still as glass, reflecting the pine trees on the opposite shore with perfect clarity. I sat in one of the Adirondack chairs my dad had built years ago, propped the Hummingbird on my knee, and started the familiar ritual of tuning.
The sun hit that sunburst finish just right, making it glow like amber, and for one clean, perfect second, everything was exactly as it should be. I was home. I was calm. I was proud of what I’d built—not just the guitar, but the life that had allowed me to own it. The career I’d scraped together in Nashville, one gig at a time, one connection at a time, until I could actually call myself a professional musician without feeling like an impostor.
I ran through a few chord progressions, letting my fingers remember the shapes, feeling the strings respond with that rich, woody tone that only vintage Gibsons produce.
Then I heard it.
Not a sound, exactly. More like a feeling—that visceral awareness that something has gone terribly, irreversibly wrong.
CRACK.
The sound came from inside the house, sharp and final, the kind of noise that your body recognizes as destruction before your brain can process the details.
I was on my feet and moving before I consciously decided to move, the guitar still in my hands, my heart already racing with an animal dread I couldn’t name yet but recognized anyway.
Inside, the main living area of the lakehouse opened up in that classic open-concept design my mother loved—kitchen flowing into dining area flowing into living room, all of it centered around the massive stone fireplace my father had built himself when they’d first purchased the property thirty years ago.
And there, in front of that fireplace, stood my nephew Tyler.
Nine years old. Skinny limbs, messy brown hair, the remnants of breakfast still visible on his cheek. And in his hands—held like a baseball bat, cocked back over his shoulder with the casual violence of a child who doesn’t yet understand consequence—was my second guitar.
My Martin D-28.
The one I’d left inside overnight because I’d only brought two guitars and the Gibson was my go-to, my first choice, the one I’d wanted to play on the deck that morning.
Except now I could see what Tyler had already done.
My 1975 Gibson Hummingbird—the guitar I’d been playing moments before, the guitar I must have left on the couch when I’d gotten up to grab coffee—was destroyed.
Not damaged. Not in need of repair.
Destroyed.
The body was split almost completely in half, the spruce top cleaved down the middle like someone had taken an axe to it. The bridge had torn away from the soundboard entirely, dangling by a few stubborn wood fibers and the still-attached strings. The neck was cracked at the heel joint. One of the tuning pegs had snapped off completely.
And pieces—splinters of wood, chips of lacquer, fragments of what had been a masterpiece of American lutherie—were scattered across the hardwood floor like shrapnel.
I stood there, my Martin still in my hands, staring at the wreckage of my Hummingbird, and for several seconds my brain simply refused to process what I was seeing. It was too much destruction, too sudden, too complete. Guitars don’t just break like that. They’re designed to withstand string tension, temperature changes, the rigors of travel and performance. You can drop a guitar and it might crack. But to reduce it to this—to splinters and separation and total structural failure—requires deliberate, sustained force.
Tyler looked up at me, the Martin still poised over his shoulder, and shrugged.
Not apologetically. Not with fear or shame or any recognition that he’d done something wrong.
Just… shrugged.
“It broke,” he said, his voice carrying that peculiar flatness that children use when they’re repeating something an adult told them. “Your guitar was fake anyway.”
The words didn’t make sense. Fake? A 1975 Gibson Hummingbird wasn’t fake—it was one of the most iconic acoustic guitars ever made, worth more now than when it was built, recognizable to anyone who knew anything about instruments.
Then I heard my brother-in-law’s voice from the doorway to the guest bedroom.
“Tyler, I said you could—oh, Jesus.”
Derek stood there in his pajama pants and expensive polo shirt, his coffee mug frozen halfway to his mouth, the color draining from his face as he took in the scene. The destroyed Gibson on the floor. Tyler with the Martin. Me, standing in the archway from the deck, probably looking like I was about to commit murder.
“I told him real Gibsons are tough,” Derek stammered, his eyes darting between me and the wreckage and Tyler, who still hadn’t lowered the Martin. “I just wanted him to… I said he could test it. To see if it was real. I didn’t think—I mean, I thought they were supposed to be durable. I didn’t think it would actually break.”
The statement was so profoundly stupid, so breathtakingly ignorant, that I couldn’t immediately formulate a response.
He’d told his nine-year-old son to test the structural integrity of a vintage guitar by hitting it against things. Because he thought real Gibsons were “tough.” Because he’d seen some video or read some article or absorbed some piece of internet wisdom about guitar construction and decided that this qualified him to make judgments about instruments worth more than most people’s cars.
My hands were shaking as I set down the Martin—carefully, gently, on a chair far away from Tyler—and knelt beside the pieces of my Hummingbird.
The neck was cracked but possibly salvageable. The body… God, the body was a total loss. The top was split along the grain, which meant the wood had given way under force. The bridge plate inside had probably shattered. The bracing might be compromised throughout. Even if someone could glue it back together, it would never sound the same. Never feel the same. Never be the same guitar that had been an extension of my hands for five years.
This wasn’t repair territory. This was restoration-if-you’re-lucky, total-loss-more-likely.
I picked up a piece of the bridge, felt the splintered wood against my palm, and something inside me went very, very quiet.
Not calm. The opposite of calm.
The kind of quiet that comes right before an explosion.
“Marcus, what the hell are you doing to my son?”
My sister Rachel’s voice cut through the room like a siren, sharp and accusatory, and when I looked up she was rushing toward Tyler with her arms outstretched as if I were the threat in this scenario.
Tyler had started crying—those big, dramatic, gulping sobs that children produce when they sense an adult is about to take their side. He dropped the Martin (I flinched, but it landed on the couch, thank God) and ran to his mother, burying his face in her stomach while she glared at me over his head.
“Why are you scaring my son?” Rachel demanded, her hand stroking Tyler’s hair in that protective, my-baby-can-do-no-wrong gesture that had defined her parenting since the kid was born.
“Scaring him?” My voice came out hoarse, unfamiliar. “Rachel, he just destroyed my guitar. He smashed it against the fireplace.”
“He’s nine years old. He didn’t mean to break it.”
“He broke it on purpose. Derek told him to ‘test’ it.”
Rachel’s eyes cut to her husband, who had the decency to look ashamed for approximately three seconds before his face rearranged itself into defensive justification.
“I didn’t tell him to break it,” Derek protested. “I just said he could check if it was a real Gibson. They’re supposed to be built solid. I saw a video where a guy dropped one and it was fine.”
“So you told a nine-year-old to test a vintage guitar by hitting it against stone?”
“I didn’t think he’d actually—”
“What did you think would happen, Derek?”
My mother’s voice joined the chorus, and somehow, impossibly, she managed to sound more annoyed with me than with the child who’d destroyed thousands of dollars of my property.
“Marcus, stop yelling. You’re upsetting Tyler.”
I wasn’t yelling. My voice had barely risen above conversational volume. But I was angry, and apparently my anger was more offensive than the broken guitar on the floor.
Mom stepped between me and Rachel, physically inserting herself into the space, her face set in that expression I’d learned to recognize over four decades of being her son—the look that said I was being unreasonable, I was overreacting, I was the problem that needed to be managed.
“He’s a child,” she said, each word carefully enunciated. “Children make mistakes. You need to stop making a scene and remember that family is more important than things.”
Things.
She’d just called my guitar—my livelihood, my craft, years of savings and sacrifice—a thing.
My father appeared from the back hallway, probably roused by the commotion, and surveyed the scene with that particular expression of exhausted disappointment he’d perfected during my teenage years.
He looked down at the destroyed Hummingbird. Looked at me. Looked at Tyler sobbing into Rachel’s shirt. And sighed.
“It’s just a guitar, Marcus. You can get another one.”
That sentence landed harder than the broken wood.
Just a guitar.
As if the five years I’d saved for it meant nothing. As if the hundreds of hours I’d played it meant nothing. As if the fact that this specific guitar—this exact instrument with its specific tone and feel and history—was irreplaceable meant nothing.
As if I meant nothing.
Nobody corrected Tyler. Nobody told him what he’d done was wrong. Nobody suggested that actions have consequences or that destroying other people’s property is unacceptable regardless of age.
Derek didn’t apologize.
Rachel didn’t acknowledge that her son had done anything requiring an apology.
My parents didn’t defend me or validate my anger or do any of the things parents are supposed to do when one of their children is wronged.
Instead, they all just kept repeating the same command in different voices—forgive, let it go, be the bigger person, don’t make this awkward, remember it’s Labor Day, think about the family, choose love over things, on and on and on until the words stopped meaning anything and became just noise designed to erase what had happened.
My loss was an inconvenience. My anger was inappropriate. My pain was less important than their comfort.
So I nodded.
I picked up the pieces of my guitar—carefully, reverently, like gathering the remains of something loved—and carried them to my car. I wrapped them in an old blanket and placed them in the trunk with the gentleness you’d use with something that could still feel pain.
Then I came back inside and sat through the barbecue.
I smiled when they watched me to see if I’d “behave.”
I accepted a burger and ate it without tasting anything.
I laughed at my uncle’s jokes and made small talk with my cousin and acted like everything was fine, like I was fine, like nothing irreplaceable had been broken along with that guitar.
And all day, while I performed normalcy for people who didn’t deserve the performance, I listened.
To the lake outside, gentle and indifferent.
To the conversations around me, shallow and meaningless.
To the way my own silence sounded different than it ever had before—less like peace, more like a decision forming.
Because while they were congratulating themselves for “keeping things calm” and “not letting Marcus ruin the day,” I was quietly doing what I always do when something actually matters.
I was planning.
Part Two: Documentation
The thing about being a professional musician is that you learn very quickly to protect your assets. Insurance. Documentation. Receipts. Proof of value. In a business where a single instrument can cost more than a used car and where you’re constantly traveling with expensive equipment, you either learn to cover yourself or you learn to accept devastating financial losses.
I’d learned to cover myself.
Around three in the afternoon, while everyone was down at the dock and I’d begged off swimming with a vague excuse about a headache, I sat in my car in the driveway with my laptop and methodically began building a case.
First, photographs. I took pictures of every piece of the destroyed Hummingbird from every angle. Close-ups of the serial number on the neck block—still visible despite the damage. Wide shots showing the full extent of the destruction. Detail shots of the split top, the torn bridge, the cracked neck joint. I made sure the lighting was good, the focus was sharp, and every image was time-stamped and geotagged.
Then I pulled up my files. The original purchase receipt from the estate sale in Memphis, showing the price I’d paid. The certificate of authenticity from the luthier I’d taken it to immediately after purchase, confirming it was a genuine 1975 Gibson Hummingbird in all-original condition. The appraisal I’d gotten last year when I’d updated my insurance, putting the current market value at $8,200.
I had everything. Paper trail, professional verification, current market assessment. The kind of documentation that turns a he-said-she-said argument into an open-and-shut insurance claim.
My parents’ lakehouse insurance policy was something my dad had bragged about for years—one of those comprehensive homeowner’s policies that covered everything, including personal property of guests. “If anything happens while you’re visiting, we’re covered,” he’d told me more than once. “That’s what you pay for with a good policy.”
Time to test that theory.
I opened a new email and started typing. Clear, factual, professional. A summary of what happened, attachments of all documentation, a statement of the instrument’s value. I cc’d my own insurance company—I had coverage for my gear, but the deductible was $1,000 and I wanted to see if my parents’ policy would handle this first.
But I needed one more thing.
I needed Derek’s admission in writing.
I opened a text message to my brother-in-law, kept my tone carefully neutral, almost friendly.
“Hey Derek, can you confirm what happened with the guitar this morning? I need a statement for the insurance claim.”
I hit send and waited.
The response came back within ten minutes. Faster than I’d expected. Derek probably thought he was helping, thought a quick explanation would clear things up, thought his version of events would somehow make this better.
“Tyler hit it to see if it was real. I told him real Gibsons are tough and he could test it. I didn’t think it would actually break. Sorry man, didn’t mean for it to go that far.”
Perfect.
A written confession that he’d instructed a child to “test” a vintage guitar by hitting it. An admission that the damage was caused by deliberate action, not accident. The kind of statement that turns a maybe-covered incident into a definitely-covered incident.
I screenshot the message, added it to my growing file of documentation, and sent the complete package to the insurance company with a subject line that was all business: “Property Damage Claim – Guest Liability – Gibson Hummingbird – $8,200.”
Then I sat back and waited for dinner.
Part Three: The Reckoning
Dinner at the lakehouse was always a production. My mother went all out—tablecloths on the big outdoor table, citronella candles to keep the bugs away, multiple dishes that required coordination and timing. Tonight was no exception. Grilled chicken, corn on the cob, three different salads, rolls from the bakery in town, and a strawberry shortcake that Tyler had apparently helped make (which everyone praised with enthusiastic disproportionate to the accomplishment of putting berries on cake).
Everyone gathered around the table as the sun started its descent toward the tree line. Tyler was already back to normal—sticky-faced and cheerful, reaching for seconds before he’d finished firsts, laughing at something my dad said. My sister kept touching his hair, smoothing it back, looking at him with that fierce maternal pride that erased any possibility she’d ever hold him accountable for anything.
Derek had changed into fresh clothes and apparently decided the whole guitar incident was behind us. He was expansive, jovial, telling some story about a client at his wealth management firm who’d made a killing in cryptocurrency. My uncle laughed too loudly. My aunt made appreciative noises.
Normal. Everything was aggressively, performatively normal.
I’d brought my laptop bag to dinner—unusual, but no one commented. I ate quietly, spoke when spoken to, played the role of the accommodating younger brother who’d decided to let things go for the sake of family harmony.
They were so relieved.
I could see it in the way my mother smiled at me, approving. In the way my father nodded slightly when I laughed at his joke, as if to say good, you’re handling this maturely. In the way Rachel visibly relaxed, her shoulders dropping from their defensive hunch now that the threat of conflict had apparently passed.
They thought they’d won.
They thought the morning’s destruction would join the long list of family incidents that get smoothed over and never mentioned again. The time Uncle Steve got drunk and broke the bathroom sink. The time my cousin backed into Dad’s truck. The time Tyler pushed another kid off the dock. All those moments when someone did something wrong and everyone just… moved on. Forgave. Forgot. Enabled.
I waited until the plates were mostly empty and the conversation had settled into that comfortable post-meal rhythm. Then I reached into my laptop bag and pulled out two items.
My phone, screen lit to show Derek’s text message.
And a printed document—the insurance claim I’d filed, complete with all attachments, professional assessment, and the final page showing the claimed amount: $8,200.
I set both items on the table, side by side, in the space that had held my dinner plate.
The conversation didn’t stop immediately. It took a few seconds for people to notice, to register that something had shifted, to see what I’d placed in front of them.
My mother saw it first. Her smile faded slowly, like a light dimming.
Then Rachel, her eyes moving from the phone to the paper to my face.
Derek went pale.
“What is this?” My father’s voice carried that edge of warning, that tone that said I was about to cross a line I shouldn’t cross.
“That,” I said, keeping my voice even, “is Derek’s written statement confirming that he instructed Tyler to test my guitar by hitting it. And this is the insurance claim I’ve filed against your homeowner’s policy for the full replacement value of the destroyed instrument.”
The silence that followed was profound.
“You filed an insurance claim?” Rachel’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Against Mom and Dad?”
“Against their policy, which covers guest property damage caused by other guests. Derek told Tyler to destroy my guitar. That makes Derek liable, and since he was a guest in this house when it happened, the homeowner’s insurance covers it.”
“It was an accident,” Derek said, but his voice had lost all its earlier confidence. “I didn’t mean—”
“You texted me that you told him to test it. That you instructed a nine-year-old to hit a vintage guitar to see if it was real. That’s not an accident, Derek. That’s negligence. Arguably, it’s intentional damage.”
My mother’s face had gone through several colors—red, then white, then red again. “Marcus, you can’t be serious. You’re going to make us file a claim? Do you know what that does to our premiums?”
“You told me it was just a guitar. You told me I could get another one. Well, this is how you get another one. You file an insurance claim for destroyed property and you get compensated for your loss.”
“But we’re family—”
“Yes, Mom. We are. And when I walked in this morning and found my guitar in pieces, you told me to forgive and forget. You told me not to make a scene. You told me family was more important than things.” I paused, let that sink in. “So I’m doing what you asked. I’m not making a scene. I’m not yelling. I’m not causing drama. I’m simply using the proper legal and financial channels to address a property damage incident. Very mature. Very adult. Exactly what you wanted.”
“This is ridiculous,” Rachel hissed. “You’re going to ruin Mom and Dad’s insurance over a guitar? Tyler didn’t mean to break it!”
“Tyler smashed it against a stone fireplace under his father’s instruction. The guitar is a total loss. The claim is legitimate.”
“We’ll pay you for it,” Derek said suddenly, desperately. “Just drop the claim. I’ll write you a check.”
“For eight thousand two hundred dollars?”
The number hung in the air like a bomb.
Derek’s face did something complicated. He was a wealth manager, made good money, but eight grand was still eight grand. And from the look passing between him and Rachel, I suspected their finances weren’t quite as solid as they pretended.
“We can work out a payment plan,” Derek tried. “Monthly installments. Six months, maybe a year—”
“The claim is already filed. The adjuster will probably contact you tomorrow or Tuesday. You’ll need to give a statement. I’m sure it’ll match what you texted me, since that would be insurance fraud if it didn’t.”
My father stood up, his chair scraping against the deck with a harsh sound. “This is not how family handles things, Marcus. You don’t file insurance claims against your own parents—”
“Then maybe you should have handled it like family this morning. Maybe you should have told Derek he was out of line. Maybe you should have acknowledged that what happened to me mattered. But you didn’t. You told me to get over it. So I am. By following the proper procedures for property damage compensation.”
“You’re being petty,” Rachel spat. “You’re punishing Tyler because you’re angry—”
“I’m not punishing anyone. I’m recovering the value of destroyed property. If you think that’s punishment, maybe you shouldn’t have destroyed the property.”
Tyler had started crying again—real tears this time, I thought, not performative ones. He could sense the adult conflict swirling around him, could feel that something bad was happening and it somehow involved him, even if he couldn’t fully understand what.
I almost felt bad for him.
Almost.
But then I remembered the shrug. The “it was fake anyway.” The complete lack of remorse or understanding that he’d done anything wrong. And I remembered that kids learn what they’re taught. Tyler had been taught that his actions didn’t have consequences. That other people’s property didn’t matter. That being a child was a shield against accountability.
Maybe this would teach him something different.
“I think we’re done here,” I said, standing. “The adjuster will be in touch. I’m heading back to Nashville tonight.”
“Tonight?” My mother’s voice cracked. “Marcus, it’s Labor Day weekend—”
“And I have a destroyed guitar to replace, sessions to reschedule, and a family that apparently thinks I should just absorb an eight-thousand-dollar loss because addressing it would be inconvenient. So yeah, Mom. Tonight.”
I left them there, sitting around the table with their half-eaten desserts and their shocked faces, and went inside to pack.
It took less than twenty minutes. I traveled light anyway, and my guitars—both the destroyed Hummingbird pieces and the intact Martin—were already in the car.
As I was loading the last bag, my father appeared in the driveway.
“You’re really going to do this?”
“It’s already done, Dad.”
“You’ll split the family apart. Rachel’s not going to forgive this. Your mother’s not going to forgive this.”
“Rachel’s not going to forgive me for filing a legitimate insurance claim after her husband told her son to destroy my property? Mom’s not going to forgive me for expecting basic accountability? Then I guess they weren’t going to forgive me anyway, were they? This just made it explicit.”
“You’re being self-righteous.”
“I’m being fair. There’s a difference.”
He stared at me for a long moment, and I couldn’t read his expression. Anger, maybe. Disappointment, definitely. But also something else. Something that might have been respect, buried deep under all the other emotions.
“That guitar really meant that much to you?”
“It wasn’t about the guitar, Dad. It was about every time someone in this family does something wrong and everyone else just makes excuses. It was about being told my feelings don’t matter, my work doesn’t matter, my property doesn’t matter—but Derek’s comfort matters. Rachel’s convenience matters. Tyler’s feelings matter. Everyone matters except me.”
I closed the trunk, leaned against the car.
“I’m tired of being the one who has to forgive everything. The one who has to be understanding. The one who has to sacrifice so everyone else can feel good about themselves. So yeah, I filed the claim. And if that makes me the bad guy, I can live with that.”
I got in the car, started the engine, and drove away from the lakehouse without looking back.
Part Four: Consequences
The insurance adjuster called me Tuesday morning, asked me to walk him through the incident. I sent him everything—photos, documentation, Derek’s text, the timeline. He listened, asked a few clarifying questions, and told me he’d be in touch.
He called back Wednesday afternoon.
“Mr. Collins, I’ve reviewed your claim and the supporting documentation. This is pretty clearly covered under your parents’ policy. The other party admitted in writing to instructing a minor to test the instrument’s durability, which resulted in total loss. That’s textbook guest liability.”
“So the claim’s approved?”
“Pending the statement from Mr. Derek Morrison, yes. We’ll need him to confirm his text message in an official statement, but assuming that matches—and I have no reason to think it won’t—we’ll be processing payment for the full appraised value. Eight thousand two hundred dollars.”
“What about their premiums?”
The adjuster sighed. “That’s between your parents and their agent, but… yeah. A claim this size is going to impact their rates. Probably significantly. And Mr. Morrison might want to talk to his own insurance provider, because we might pursue subrogation against him.”
“Subrogation?”
“We pay your claim, then we try to recover the money from the responsible party. In this case, that’s Mr. Morrison. He might end up owing us the full amount, plus dealing with his own rate increases if we file against his policy.”
I hung up and sat with that information.
Derek was going to get hit twice—once for the claim against my parents, once for the subrogation against him.
Good.
Thursday afternoon, my phone started ringing. Rachel’s number. I declined the call. She called again. I declined again. She sent a text: “We need to talk.”
I didn’t respond.
My mother called Friday morning. I almost didn’t answer, but curiosity won.
“The insurance company is raising our rates by forty percent,” she said without preamble. “Forty percent, Marcus. Because of your claim.”
“Because Derek destroyed my guitar.”
“He didn’t mean to! It was an accident!”
“Mom, he texted me an admission that he told Tyler to test it. The insurance company has that in writing. It’s not an accident when you instruct someone to do something and they do it.”
“You know what I mean. He didn’t think it would break.”
“That doesn’t make it less his fault. That makes him negligent.”
“And now he’s going to have to pay the insurance company back. Did you know that? They’re going after him for the money. He and Rachel are going to have to come up with eight thousand dollars because you couldn’t just let this go.”
“No, Mom. Derek and Rachel are going to have to come up with eight thousand dollars because Derek told Tyler to destroy my property. I didn’t make that happen. Derek made that happen. I just refused to eat the cost.”
“You’re tearing this family apart.”
“The family was already torn, Mom. You just didn’t notice because I was the one bleeding.”
She hung up on me.
Saturday, Derek called. This time I answered, curious what he’d say.
“Marcus, man, please. Can we work something out? The insurance company is demanding I pay them back. That’s eight grand I don’t have right now. We’ve got Tyler’s school tuition, the mortgage, Rachel’s car payment—”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have told your son to smash my guitar.”
“It was a mistake! I already apologized—”
“No, Derek. You said ‘sorry man, didn’t mean for it to go that far.’ That’s not an apology. That’s not taking responsibility. That’s minimizing what you did so you can feel better about it.”
“What do you want from me? You want me to grovel? Fine. I’m sorry. I fucked up. I should never have told Tyler he could test it. I should have known better. I’m an idiot. Is that what you want to hear?”
“What I wanted to hear was that sentence on Monday, in front of the whole family, followed by you writing me a check for the full value of the guitar without being forced to do it by an insurance company. But that didn’t happen, did it? Instead, everyone told me to get over it.”
“So you’re going to bankrupt me over pride?”
“I’m not bankrupting you, Derek. Consequences are bankrupting you. The consequence of destroying an eight-thousand-dollar guitar and assuming there wouldn’t be repercussions. That’s on you.”
He hung up.
Sunday—exactly one week after the incident—my phone rang with a number I didn’t recognize. I almost declined, but something made me answer.
“Mr. Collins? This is Tom Chen from Precision Towing. I have a 2023 Mercedes S-Class registered to Derek Morrison here at your parents’ lakehouse property. The owner is saying there’s been some kind of mistake, but my work order says to tow it to the impound lot. Can you confirm this is authorized?”
I was confused for approximately three seconds.
Then I understood.
“Mr. Chen, I didn’t authorize that tow. What work order are you referring to?”
“Says here it’s part of an insurance settlement. Vehicle needs to be assessed for collateral or something? I got the call from a company called… let me check… Settlement Services Group?”
Settlement Services Group wasn’t my insurance company. Or my parents’. But it sounded like exactly the kind of third-party outfit that insurance companies use when they’re pursuing aggressive subrogation against someone who can’t or won’t pay.
They weren’t towing Derek’s car because of me.
They were towing it because Derek owed them eight grand and they were securing collateral.
“Mr. Chen, I think you’d better talk to Mr. Morrison directly about that. I’m not involved in whatever’s happening with his vehicle.”
“Right, okay. Thanks.”
He hung up.
Ten minutes later, Derek called me, screaming.
“THEY’RE TOWING MY FUCKING CAR! They’re taking my Mercedes because of you! Because of your goddamn guitar claim!”
“Derek, I didn’t authorize—”
“This is your fault! You filed the claim, now they’re taking my car!”
“They’re taking your car because you owe them eight thousand dollars and apparently you haven’t paid it. That’s not my doing, that’s theirs. And yours.”
“I don’t HAVE eight thousand dollars! I told them I needed time, I need to work out a payment plan, but they’re taking my car anyway! How am I supposed to get to work? How am I supposed to—”
“Derek. Stop. Listen to me. I didn’t call the tow company. I didn’t authorize them to take your car. This is between you and the insurance company. If they’re pursuing collateral, that means you defaulted on payment somehow. You need to call them, not me.”
“This wouldn’t be happening if you’d just let it go! If you’d just accepted that it was an accident and moved on like a normal person!”
“A normal person files insurance claims when their property is destroyed. A normal person expects accountability. A normal person doesn’t tell children to smash vintage guitars and then complain about the consequences. You did this, Derek. Own it.”
I hung up.
And I sat there in my Nashville apartment, staring at my phone, feeling…
Not good, exactly.
Not victorious.
But not guilty either.
Just… clear.
Clear about who my family was. Clear about what they valued. Clear about where I stood in their hierarchy of importance.
And clear that I’d done exactly what needed to be done.
Part Five: Aftermath
Monday morning, my phone was quiet.
No calls from family. No texts. No demands or accusations or attempts to make me feel guilty for standing my ground.
Just silence.
Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.
Lila earned her degree in History and Archival Studies from the University of Edinburgh, where she cultivated her passion for documenting the past and preserving cultural heritage. Her expertise lies in combining traditional archival techniques with modern digital tools, allowing her to create comprehensive and engaging collections that resonate with audiences worldwide.
At TheArchivists, Lila is known for her meticulous attention to detail and her ability to uncover hidden gems within extensive archives. Her work is praised for its depth, authenticity, and contribution to the preservation of knowledge in the digital age.
Driven by a commitment to preserving stories that matter, Lila is passionate about exploring the intersection of history and technology. Her goal is to ensure that every piece of content she handles reflects the richness of human experiences and remains a source of inspiration for years to come.