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For the first time in years, I was in the front seat, and the air felt clean. My phone erupted with frantic calls and vitriolic texts from both of them, but I sent a single reply: “Please contact my lawyer.” Then, I blocked them. During the divorce proceedings, Harry attempted to claim the car as a marital asset, but my lawyer easily dismantled that argument with bank records proving the car was bought solely with my inheritance. Stephanie tried to paint me as a villain to anyone who would listen, but I no longer cared about the opinions of those who benefit from someone else’s diminishment.
Today, I drive myself everywhere. I drive to work, to the grocery store, and on long, aimless Sunday afternoons to the coast. I recently visited my grandmother’s grave and told her that I finally understood what she meant about foundations. I learned that once you stop riding in the back seat of your own life, you develop an intolerance for anyone who tries to put you there again. Harry said his mother deserved the front seat more than I did, so I gave it to her permanently. I left them both behind in the rearview mirror, and I have never looked back. The front seat is mine now, and I am the only one who decides where we are going.
