Woman lost in head-on collision, All of them were astounded by what they found on her Facebook profile

Police found the body of a 34-year-old woman, crushed in a car accident. They took her phone, but what they saw when they opened her Facebook page left them speechless! Here\'s the last thing she did before she died:  👇👇

Woman lost in head-on collision, All of them were astounded by what they found on her Facebook profile

Tragically, 34-year-old Courtney Ann Sanford, who was regarded as an experienced driver, perished in an automobile accident.

She chose to share a social media post on the Pharrell Williams song “Happy,” which she was listening to while driving. “This song makes me happy!” she said as the caption for a selfie she snapped.
A minute later, Courtney’s automobile, travelling at about sixty kilometres per hour, struck a truck, sending it flying into a ditch and finally into a tree. Her automobile caught fire due to the severe accident, and sadly, she was trapped inside and did not escape.

Her family was informed, and they discovered that her most recent Facebook post coincided oddly with the event. Law enforcement claims that the post was posted at 8:33 AM. We received the emergency call at 8:34 AM.
Pexels
You put not just yourself but also your passengers, pedestrians, and other drivers in danger when you text and drive.

You have to give the route your whole attention. Remember that operating a vehicle is more than simply a daily pastime; it is a serious duty. Please use Facebook to SHARE this post with your loved ones.
My 73-year-old father just blew his entire retirement fund on a $35,000 Harley Davidson instead of helping me pay off my loans, and he has the nerve to call it his "last great adventure."

For five decades, he wasted his life in that grimy motorcycle repair shop, hands permanently stained with grease, smelling of motor oil and cigarettes, embarrassing me in front of my friends with his faded tattoos and leather vest.

Now that he's finally sold the shop, instead of doing something useful with the money like helping his only daughter get out of debt or putting a down payment on a condo I've been eyeing, he's "investing in his happiness" with a ridiculous midlife crisis motorcycle.

Yesterday, when I confronted him about his selfish decision, he actually laughed and said, "Sweetheart, at my age, all crises are end-of-life crises." As if that's funny. As if his responsibility to support me ended just because I'm 42.

He doesn't understand that I deserve that money more than he does – I have decades ahead of me, while he's just going to ride that stupid bike until his heart gives out on some remote highway.

My friends all agree that parents should help their children financially, especially when they have the means. But Dad just keeps talking about "the call of the open road" and how he's already booked a three-month cross-country trip, riding through places he's always wanted to see "before it's too late."

Too late for what? Too late to be a responsible father who puts his child's needs first? I've already had to cancel my Bahamas vacation because of my financial situation, while he's planning to "live free" on the highway.

It's not fair that I'm trapped in my assistant manager job, drowning in debt, while he throws away what should have been my inheritance on some pathetic last-ditch attempt to feel young again.

But I had decided to take his retirement fund even if he don't gives me. I had all the rights and power to snatch that money from him....

(Check out the comment to see how the old man taught her a lesson)

https://timelytalescheck.blogspot.com/2025/05/my-father-worked-fifty-years-and-i.html
 
My Father Worked Fifty Years and I Still Think His Retirement Money Belongs to Me

My 73-year-old father just drained his retirement savings to buy a $35,000 Harley-Davidson instead of helping me with my mounting debt.

He called it his “last great adventure,” as if that justifies ignoring his only daughter’s financial struggles.

For fifty years, he toiled away in a greasy motorcycle repair shop, his hands stained with oil, always reeking of cigarettes. He embarrassed me in front of my friends with his old tattoos and biker gear.
After finally selling the shop, I assumed he’d do something sensible—like help me with a down payment on the condo I’ve been eyeing.
Instead, he blew the money on a shiny motorcycle and planned a cross-country road trip.

When I confronted him, he just chuckled and said, “Sweetheart, at my age, all crises are end-of-life crises.”
For illustrative purpose only
As if turning 73 excuses ignoring me. I’m 42 and drowning in bills, while he’s chasing open roads and sunsets like he’s still twenty.

I’ve had to cancel vacations and pick up extra shifts, all while he brags about “answering the call of the highway.” My friends agree—parents who have the means should help their kids. But Dad insists this trip is his reward for a life of hard work.

After Mom passed five years ago, I hoped he’d finally grow up.

She had kept him grounded. Without her, he’s slipped back into a version of himself I thought we’d outgrown—beard growing wild, hanging out with his biker club, and now this ridiculous midlife crisis at the edge of old age.
Last week over dinner, I tried reasoning with him. “You don’t need a brand-new Harley. You could buy a modest car, help me with my condo, and still have enough for yourself.”
He just said, “Amanda, I’ve been responsible all my life. I put you through college. Helped you with your first house.”
“That was different,” I protested. “Now I really need help.”
He looked at me and said, “You’re a grown woman with a job. I started with nothing. Your mom and I built everything with our own hands.”
“But you have money now,” I argued. “You could change my life.”

“I already did,” he replied. “By working every day to give you a head start.”
When I snapped that Mom would’ve never let him waste money like this, his face softened. Then he pulled out a photo I’d never seen—Mom, young and wild, straddling a motorcycle with a leather jacket and a smile that mirrored mine.
For illustrative purpose only
“She loved bikes, Amanda. That’s how we met. This trip—she’d be riding with me if she could.”
I was stunned. It didn’t match my image of her. But Dad swore it was true. “Before she died, she made me promise not to leave my dreams behind. So this trip—it’s for both of us.”

A week later, I stood in his parking lot, watching him pack up.

His biker friends were there, laughing and sharing drinks, while I stood apart, fuming. He came over with his helmet tucked under his arm, and I tried one last time to make him see reason.

“How can you be so selfish?” I said. “You’re riding off while I’m stuck barely scraping by.”
He looked tired but calm. “I worked hard for this moment. I’m sorry you’re struggling, truly. But this is something I’ve waited my whole life for.”
Then he handed me an envelope. Inside was a check—not enough to wipe out all my debt, but enough to make a dent.

For illustrative purpose only
“It’s from selling my tools,” he said. “I thought they should still do something useful.”
Confused, I asked, “If you were going to help me anyway, why all the arguing?”
“Because this was never about money,” he answered. “It’s about you respecting my choice to finally live on my own terms.”

He left that morning, his new Harley gleaming in the sun. I watched the procession of motorcycles vanish down the road, the check still in my hand, wondering if maybe I’d misjudged him all along.

Three months passed.

He sent postcards and called regularly. Slowly, our conversations shifted from awkward small talk to meaningful exchanges.
I began asking questions—about riding, about the freedom he felt. He told me it made him feel alive, like nothing else did.
When he returned, I met him at his apartment. As we unpacked his bags, something changed in me. I saw not a reckless old man chasing youth, but someone finally reclaiming joy after a lifetime of sacrifice.
For illustrative purpose only
Sitting together that evening, I looked at him and said, “I think I owe you an apology. For not seeing who you really are.”
He smiled. “We all have blind spots, Amanda. I’m just glad you’re starting to see me now.”