After years of depending on my husband to drive, getting behind the wheel felt like starting over. Then my neighbor decided he had the right to tell me where I could and couldn’t go.
The little plastic card felt heavier than it should have, sitting in my palm like a passport to somewhere I’d never been.
Sixty years old, and I finally had my driver’s license.
I sat in the front seat of my old Chevrolet in the DMV parking lot, adjusted my mirror for the third time, and let out a laugh that surprised me. Paul would’ve teased me for taking so long to pull out.
The little plastic card felt heavier than it should have.
My husband had been gone for two years. Forty-one years of marriage, and he’d driven every single mile of it.
“You planning to sit there all afternoon, or are we getting coffee?”
Stella’s voice came through my open window. My best friend since our filing-cabinet days at the insurance office, she was leaning against her own car with that grin she’d worn since we met.
He’d driven every single mile of it.
“I’m savoring the moment,” I said.
“You’re stalling.”
“Sa-vo-ring.”
“Carol, honey, the car has to move for it to count.”
I checked my mirrors again. Both of them. Twice.
Stella tapped the roof and laughed.
“O Lord. You’re gonna be one of those grandmas going 40 in a 45, aren’t you?”
“Fifty in a fifty-five, thank you very much!”
“You’re stalling.”
***
Fifteen minutes later, Stella and I were tucked into a booth at a diner. My friend raised her mug as if it were champagne.
“To Carol! Licensed, dangerous, and long overdue!”
“I’m not dangerous.”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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