I’m not the one behind the wheel. I’m sitting in the back seat with milk-filled breasts, gazing out into the dark night. It’s cold, and the windows are misting up. I look at my son, who is sleeping in his baby car seat. It’s eleven o’clock at night. He’s only two days old, and we’ve just left the maternity ward.
It’s the first time I’ve driven alone, and today is his first day at school. I drive there singing “Dark Necessities”, while he swings his legs clad in navy blue uniform trousers and his mustard-yellow trainers tap against the front seat. My vision blurs as I say goodbye to him outside the school building; he simply takes a deep breath and walks inside.
My red Fiat 500 makes a noise as we drive through the empty streets on this blue-sky Sunday. We don’t have anything to do, but he wanted to go for a drive. We head to a DIY store and don’t buy anything. On the way back, he says it was the best day ever.
It’s his last day at school. The pandemic would begin shortly afterwards, delaying our move to another country. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, I see the curls of his black hair swaying in the wind against his face. He smiles.
The Prius was very full, but the driver managed to fit all our bags in. The driver weaved quickly through the streets of Munich while I said goodbye to the city, thinking it would be the last time I’d see it. He dozes off, leaning against my shoulder and clutching a Spider-Man toy.
I went a long time without driving. First the pandemic hit, then I moved to another country where I didn’t have a driving licence for Europe. When we returned to Brazil, it was just me, him, my seven-month-pregnant belly, and lots of luggage that I dragged, crying from exhaustion, through various airports. My feet were swollen. My father strapped my son into his car seat in the back, and I fell asleep. When I woke up, he was already in my mother’s arms and she was crying.
My son wasn’t with me. It was still the pandemic, but the first scene had repeated itself with a few changes: this time, it was morning. My brother was driving and I was sitting in the back seat with my milk-filled breasts. Looking to the side, I saw my daughter in the infant carrier, wearing a yellow outfit. She looked very small compared to the carrier, and her hair was jet black.
The car was full to bursting, and now I was sitting in the back seat next to two children: one in a child seat and the other in a baby carrier. We were about to arrive at the airport to return to Germany. I watched the two of them play and smile whilst my parents, in the front seat, tried to hide their tears.
We travelled by train. The older one walked beside me and the little sat in the pushchair. A woman overheard us talking and asked what language we were speaking. She smiled and looked surprised when she heard the answer.
I passed my German driving test, and I could see the two children playing in the back seat in the rear-view mirror. My son was carrying several books, while my daughter was drawing and humming. Between them was our elderly German Spitz. We were driving along the autobahn, and I had got used to driving at nearly 200 km/h.
Once again, the car was packed with suitcases as we drove through the outskirts of Munich towards Freising, the airport town. My heart was heavy with the thought of saying goodbye, but I knew I’d made the right decision. My son was already anticipating feeling homesick as he gazed intently out of the window. My daughter was excited to fly alone with her grandmother for the first time. On the way back home, I felt a tremendous emptiness, mirroring that of the car. I sang along to the playlist I’d heard a million times before, almost on autopilot.
Every morning at 6.50am, the two of them sit in the back seat while I drive them to school. There’s usually an argument about the music, but today they both agreed to my choice of music and happily sang along to songs by my favourite band from my teenage years. My son has lost his curls, and my daughter’s hair isn’t quite so black anymore. I watch life go by through the small rear-view mirror.
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