Buying a car for the family is always a major investment that no household takes lightly. For months, I pored over reviews, technical forums, and reliability charts before I finally chose a five-year-old petrol wagon with a fully documented service history from its first owner. The car was in perfect condition—spotless, technically flawless, and exactly what our family needed for daily commutes and long trips. I was genuinely happy with it and looked forward to taking it for a spin to my father-in-law’s sixtieth birthday celebration on Sunday.
We arrived at the garden party first and parked the car in the driveway in front of the house. Half an hour later, my brother-in-law screeched up with his family, brakes squealing and a cloud of bluish smoke pouring from the exhaust. He stepped out of his twenty-year-old diesel Octavia, its sills eaten through by rust, fenders patched with silver tape, and the engine in such a sorry state that every technical inspection depended more on a friendly mechanic than on actual roadworthiness. As soon as he slammed the corroded door and greeted his parents, his eyes landed on my new car.
Instead of a simple compliment or a casual “hope it serves you well,” a sneering, condescending smirk immediately appeared on his face. He walked over, brushed his hand along the paintwork, and with a loud sigh declared to the whole family: “Well, look at that, you finally got rid of that old junk and bought yourself another money pit. Did you really spend money on this model? It’s got direct injection—it’ll be all clogged up with carbon in a year, the timing chain snaps all the time, and the clutch won’t last fifty thousand. These engines are the manufacturer’s biggest mistake—anyone who knows anything about cars knows that.”
An awkward silence instantly settled over the table under the pergola. The other guests stared down at their plates while my brother-in-law continued his unsolicited lecture. In front of my mother- and father-in-law, he started listing supposed design flaws in my engine, calculating hypothetical repairs costing hundreds of thousands at the authorized service, and theatrically shaking his head at how naïve I must be not to have bought a tried-and-true diesel without a particulate filter like his.
I stayed completely calm. I didn’t let myself get provoked into an argument or a shouting match. I waited until his monologue, full of second-hand internet wisdom, ran out of steam, put down my glass, and said in a matter-of-fact voice: “You know, Luděk, before I bought this car, I had a full mechanical inspection and diagnostics done. Unlike your car, which leaks oil onto dad’s paving stones and spits soot from the exhaust, this one just passed its technical inspection with zero faults. When you can legally pass inspection without a buddy at the garage and your exhaust doesn’t fall off while driving, I’ll gladly take your advice on what I should buy.”
At that moment, my brother-in-law turned bright red and his bravado crumbled. My father-in-law just smiled and quickly steered the conversation toward the garden barbecue. For the rest of the afternoon, my brother-in-law sat quietly in the corner, not saying another word about cars. For me, it was a clear example of typical Czech envy: people who can’t even keep their own things in usable condition are often the first to belittle the success and joy of others, just to justify their own misery to themselves.
