My Husband Said His Mom Deserved the Front Seat More than Me – I Taught Him a Lesson

The following week, I enrolled in driving school without telling a soul.

I told Harry I was working late on a project. Twice a week, I’d stay at the office until everyone left, then walk three blocks to where my driving instructor waited.

His name was Miguel, and he was patient in a way Harry had never been. He didn’t sigh when I stalled at a stop sign. He didn’t make me feel stupid for asking questions.

I didn’t cry that night. I was done doing it. I devised a plan instead.

“You’re doing great,” he’d say when I successfully parallel parked between two cones. “Most people take way longer to get that.”

I practiced everything. Highway merging. Three-point turns. Backing into tight spaces. Navigating roundabouts without panicking.

Some nights, I came home with my hands cramping from gripping the wheel too tightly. Harry would ask why I looked tired, and I’d blame spreadsheets and deadlines.

He never questioned it. He barely looked up from his phone.

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