Chapter 3: Broken Phones, Broken Pride

With people like this, there’s only one solution: call the cops. Sometimes, you have to let the professionals handle it.

So I silently took out my phone to dial 911.

My hands were shaking, but I kept my voice steady.

But before I could even call, Amanda snatched my phone and slammed it on the pavement, her voice screeching:

Her hand shot out like a snake. The phone bounced once, twice, then cracked open, screen spiderwebbing across the asphalt. “Are you even listening to me? You’re still playing with your phone at a time like this?”

Her move startled my wife, who stepped back with a gasp.

The rest of the family froze, eyes darting between Amanda and me.

I stared at my iPhone—my wife’s Christmas present—now split in two on the pavement. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t furious.

A sick, hollow feeling settled in my gut. That phone was more than just a gadget—it was a gift, a lifeline, a piece of my daily life. Now it was ruined, just like the night.

That phone wasn’t just a gift from my wife; it held work files—critical to my job. Now the phone was toast, and who knew if I could recover those files? If not, I might even lose my job.

I remembered the last late-night email I’d sent, the notes for the big project due next week, the client contacts I hadn’t backed up. The thought of losing all that made my head spin.

Losing your livelihood is like losing the ground under your feet—

it cuts deep.

I felt the panic rising, a cold sweat prickling at the back of my neck. How was I supposed to explain this to my boss? To my wife?

I really wanted to punch Amanda right then and there. But reason told me not to. If I started a fight, I’d get slapped with an assault charge. With all the security cameras around, it wouldn’t matter what I said.

I clenched my fists, forcing myself to breathe. I wasn’t about to give them that satisfaction.

So I swallowed my anger and said coldly:

My voice was steady, but every word was loaded. “Why’d you smash my phone?”

I glared at her, my voice like ice. She shrank back, bumping into Matt before she realized she’d been intimidated. Embarrassed in front of everyone, she tried to regain the upper hand, her voice shrill again:

She straightened up, tossing her hair defiantly. “So what if it’s an iPhone? How much could it possibly be worth—more than my husband’s BMW X5? Your car blocked us and caused this accident, so I’ll just deduct the cost of your phone from the repair bill. I’m even letting you off easy! Right, everyone?”

She looked around, waiting for someone to back her up. Not a single relative met her eyes.

She tried to rally the other relatives to her side, but anyone could see what really happened. Matt’s car hit mine, and he was drunk—the whole thing was on him. Now she wanted everyone to back her up? Not a chance. No one said a word.

Aunt Linda looked down at her shoes. Uncle Gary cleared his throat. Even the kids knew better than to get involved.

Things had gotten this far, and Matt and Amanda still insisted my car was to blame. Now she’d smashed my phone and wanted to count it against their repair costs—just ridiculous.

It was like watching someone dig their own grave, one shovelful at a time. The more they talked, the worse it got.

Plus, my phone held work files worth millions. If those files couldn’t be recovered, how would they pay for that?

I let the thought sink in, letting them stew in their own mess for a moment. The stakes were a lot higher than a busted bumper.

So I said it out loud:

I made sure to look Amanda dead in the eye. “Pay? With what?”

“Amanda, I forgot to mention—my phone had company files worth millions. If I can’t recover them, how are you going to compensate me?”

The words landed like a slap.

The moment I finished, both Matt and Amanda’s faces went pale.

It was the first time all night they looked truly afraid. The truth had finally sunk in—actions have consequences, even for them. For a second, I almost felt sorry for them. Almost.