The EV in the School Car Park

I chose this car. Nobody told me it was the wrong one. Nobody asked if I’d thought it through. Nobody said you’re sure about that. I just chose it.

An EV. Electric. Quiet. Like me, after everything. Running on something cleaner than what I was running on before.

It sounds stupid. Getting emotional about a car. But you have to understand what came before it. Thirteen years of being driven. Not literally. Metaphorically. Thirteen years of someone else choosing the route and the speed and whether we stopped and when. Thirteen years of a man who decided what car we had and when we used it and whether I was allowed to take it somewhere that wasn’t Tesco or the school run.

This car is mine. Bought with my money. Insured in my name. Parked outside my house. Goes where I tell it. Stops when I decide. Takes me and my children wherever we want and doesn’t ask why I’m going or when I’ll be back.

I sit in it sometimes. In the school car park. After dropping off wherever we’re going that day. And I just sit there. In the quiet. In the car that’s mine. And I feel something I can’t quite name but it’s somewhere in the neighbourhood of peace.

The first long drive I did alone I nearly cried. Not because I was sad. Because I was on a motorway and the music was mine and the window was open and nobody was telling me I was in the wrong lane or going too fast or why did I take this route when the other one was clearly better.

I took this route because I wanted to. That’s why. Because I wanted to.

Do you know how long it’s been since “because I wanted to” was a sufficient reason for anything.

The car charges overnight. In the morning it’s full. Ready. Waiting. Like it knows we’re going somewhere even when I don’t.

I’m going somewhere.

I don’t know where yet. But the car is charged and the road is mine and nobody gets to choose the route but me.