When my minivan died in the grocery store lot, I held back tears. As a single mom juggling two jobs since my husband died, I couldn’t afford a new car. That’s when my flashy neighbor Cheryl pounced.

“I’ve got a barely-used Toyota,” she purred. “$2,500—neighbor discount!”

I scraped together my emergency fund—meant for my kids’ needs—and handed it over. Twenty-four hours later, smoke poured from the hood. The engine was toast.

Mechanic Frank confirmed: Cheryl knew it was failing. Furious, I confronted her. She smirked. “You paid cash, no returns. That’s real life, sweetie.”

Crushed, I returned to the shop to clean out the car. “Check under the seats,” Frank said. I did—and found a brown leather bag. Inside? $7,000 in cash, pawn shop receipts, and a note addressed to Cheryl.

The next day, Cheryl came storming over. “Did you find a small bag in the car? Sentimental stuff.”

“You mean the one stuffed with cash?” I said sweetly. “No warranties, no returns, right?”

She panicked. “That money belongs to dangerous people. Please!”

I smiled. “Guess you should’ve done your homework.”

Cheryl vanished overnight. Her house sat dark, a For Sale sign out front.

Frank later sold the Toyota for parts, and helped me buy a reliable Honda from an honest seller.

As I drove my kids to school, my daughter asked, “Why did Miss Cheryl move?”

“Because karma came knocking,” I said.

Sometimes, life gives you exactly what you need… wrapped in poetic justice.