There’s an old Chevy that sits at the far end of our driveway, out of the way but not forgotten. It may seem like a hunk of worn-out metal to most, but to my husband and me, it signifies a whole lot more.
In our town, there are not many exciting things to do, but there are endless country backroads. For two high schoolers in love, those roads were the beginning of everything—they were the highway to our futures and the start of a new chapter that turned into a book that’s still being written.
The story of us.
I remember those simpler, slower days, filled with the ups and downs of a young new relationship.
The first kiss, the long days working in the garage, the countless drives to nowhere spent getting to know each other, two voices singing along to the radio, a hand on the steering wheel and another in mine. Getting caught up in blue eyes and dusty roads—the truck went faster and so did we. I kept turning and turning those pages of this chapter until the next one started, and we grew up.
Soon we were married, and it was only fitting we drive away—finally married after all this time, after all the laughter and tears and heartache and happiness we had seen—in the truck that brought us so close together from the beginning.
Now the simpler, slower days of just us are in the rearview.
Our days are spent working and changing diapers, keeping up with the bills and the house and the yard and the chores. The stresses of daily life put a toll on each of us as well as our marriage. There have been many moments in the days after we became parents that I’ve felt defeated and have wondered what happened to us, how we grew so much apart, and how on earth we could reconnect.
And then there were many times when I’d look out the window at that old truck, quietly waiting for us to take a moment, call a sitter, and take a ride.
And so, finally, one day after days of doing nothing, “Babe . . . can we go for a drive?”