I was already sweating by the time I sat down behind the wheel. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and I knew I was overthinking every move. Parallel parking? Disaster. I forgot to signal once, and I rolled a stop sign. Not great.
The officer riding with me, Officer Latham, didn’t say much—just took notes while I mumbled apologies to the steering wheel.
After we pulled back into the parking lot, she asked me to wait inside while she filled out the form. I sat there staring at the clock, surrounded by other teens who either looked relieved or completely crushed. I was somewhere in between.
When she finally called my name, I walked over expecting the worst. But she smiled and handed me a paper—not a certificate, not a pass, but a list.
It had places that offered free driving tutoring. Community-run workshops. Even the name of someone who volunteered to help kids one-on-one.
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She looked me in the eye and said, “You’re not a bad driver—you’re a nervous one. That’s fixable.”
I don’t know why, but that hit me harder than failing the test.
I thanked her, probably too many times, and was about to walk away when she said something else—something that made me freeze in place…
“Your dad taught me to drive,” she said softly.
I blinked. “My dad?”
“Officer Martin, right?” she asked, her voice gentle. “He volunteered at the community center when I was in high school. I was the terrified girl who hit the cones every single time. He used to say, ‘Fear is just potential that hasn’t been trained yet.’”
My throat tightened.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “That sounds like him.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she added quietly. “He talked about you all the time. Said he couldn’t wait to teach you how to drive one day.”
I stood there frozen, holding the paper with shaking fingers.
“I wish he could’ve,” I said. My voice cracked, and I felt the tears coming before I could stop them.
Officer Latham didn’t say anything right away—just reached into her pocket and handed me something small.
A keychain.
It was old, worn, with faded embroidery that read “Stay steady.”
“He gave this to me when I finally passed,” she said. “I think he’d want you to have it now.”
I took it like it was made of glass, nodding silently.
“I’ll see you again soon,” she smiled. “And next time, you’ll be ready.”
That night, I didn’t cry because I failed.
I cried because someone remembered my dad—not as a name or a badge, but as a person who left a mark.
And next month, when I walked back into that DMV—steady hands, deep breath, keychain in my pocket—I passed.
Not just the test, but something bigger.
