The Seat Beside the Driving Instructor

At fifty-eight, Marianne began driving lessons because her husband had always driven and was now working abroad. Friends praised her independence before she had learned to reverse. She wished they would stop. Their enthusiasm turned every stalled engine into a judgement about her courage, rather than the predictable mistake of someone learning a complicated practical skill much later than expected.

During her fourth lesson, she froze at a busy junction. The instructor calmly guided her to a quiet street, where she burst into tears. She said she should have learned decades ago. He asked whether that information would help them leave the parking space. His dry tone irritated her enough to interrupt the speech she had prepared against herself.

They practised moving forward and stopping until her hands stopped shaking. On the way home, Marianne saw a bus carrying people who looked neither weak nor dependent. She realised she had begun treating driving as a test of adulthood, although she had managed a household and a career without it. That thought made the next lesson less dramatic, not less important.

She passed her test several months later and still took the bus into the city. Her first solo drive was to a large furniture warehouse with easy parking. She bought nothing except two bulbs. When her husband called, she described missing the entrance and driving round again. He congratulated her. This time, she accepted the praise without having to become a completely different woman in return.