Holy Tesla! I Don’t Pray.

Experts say being a mom is terrific. Days filled with hugs, kisses, and joy. Spare me! Put any of those experts in my car, and they’d choke on their theories in a heartbeat. My three kids were screaming like cockatoos in the backseat while we sat trapped in L.A. traffic. I gripped the wheel, dreaming of the beach. Tomorrow. One last ocean escape before summer ends. That’s the plan… Or at least it was until my husband ruined it.

For months, he’d had his eyes on a new Tesla. No surprise that the moment I walked in the door, he yelled:
“We are picking up Tesla tomorrow! 4 pm!” excitement spilling over every word.
“What? I told you, tomorrow we are going to the beach,” I insisted.
“No. You’ll drive me to pick up the car,” he confirmed without looking at me.

So much for relaxing in the sand, even though I desperately needed a break; now we were picking up Tesla—4 pm—the exact window to wreck my day.
The kids were thrilled. My husband was ecstatic. And I was… pissed.
I saw children’s crescent grins and asked myself: Why wasn’t I excited about a new car? I know I should have been.
Because it never mattered what I wanted. They just assumed I’d tag along, like I’ve always had. I was their 24/7 full-service robot.

The next morning proved it. Coffee reheated twice. Reading my book was interrupted by a pounding fist that demanded ‘Mommy!’ And before I noticed, I was back on duty on my supposed day off.

At four o’clock sharp, I was standing ten feet away, watching my family worship a shiny-blue beast that hijacked my Sunday. It reigned in the parking lot, staring me down, mocking my resentment. The kids bounced around in a frenzy, smudging their fingerprints across Tesla’s spotless body, while my husband walked around beaming.

A man in a blazing red Tesla T-shirt and biker sunglasses burst out. He attacked the car with a bright-yellow rag like a soldier on parade, buffing the exterior. But he could hardly keep up with my kids, who undid his work in seconds. I laughed to myself, seeing his worried face and sweat breaking out on his forehead. I wondered if I looked like this when I cleaned at home.

Instantly, the humor evaporated. I realized I envied him. He—the man wiping cars—had a paycheck, a lunch break, and the occasional ‘thank you.’ Me—a mom with a so-called fancy (yet completely useless) law degree and awards—had none of that.
I stood in my well-tailored trousers and a silk blouse—presentable outside, but hiding swollen eyes behind sunglasses. Had anyone come close, they’d see the tears burning underneath. But nobody dared to approach. I was too damned well-composed. I stared at my family, realizing that I didn’t fit in this moment. Not in this car.

“Excuse me,” a soft voice broke my thoughts. “Do you mind taking a picture of me in my new car?” A curly blonde dude politely held out his phone. With the sun against his back and a big smile, he looked like an Inca sun god. I smiled and almost bowed. But the glare of Tesla beside him spotlit the true god on this lot.
“Of course,” I replied and snapped a few shots from different angles.
“Thank you,” he radiated gratitude. Then he slipped inside the car and pulled away.

Meanwhile, my husband asked the kids to remove their shoes before entering. Shoes lined up immediately, as if this Tesla was a temple.
“Holy Tesla,” I whispered, jaw hinged open. I was stunned. Since when? When did he start caring about shoes? At home, they tramp through the living room as if it had a built-in self-cleaning feature—another reminder that it was time to move on and begin a new life.
But reality barged in when I heard my kids already fighting about the seats, while my husband paced around the car like a lunatic, searching for imperceptible scratches.

Why do I keep calling him my husband? Maybe because, legally, we are still married, and “father of my kids” sounds too harsh, considering that we all share a roof. Yet, I was happy for him. Very happy. He’d worked hard, climbing his legal staircase steadily, each step rewarded with a raise or a promotion. And now he’s reached the wheel of his dream.

And my dreams? They’d been shot off with a silencer a long time ago.
That car was the reflection of my own grief—my life passing, my career sacrificed to care for my kids. Almost as if I looped a leash around my neck, handed it to them, and let them drag me behind, like a cow to the market.

“Congratulations on a new car.” The red shirt delivered his well-rehearsed line. I blinked in surprise. “The kids are happy,” he continued with a dry smile.
“We all are,” I lied, thinking: I hate that fucking car.
I glanced one last time and waved them off. But nobody noticed me from inside their new Tesla.

I turned toward my old, faithful Subaru, roasting in the sun, heat shimmering above the roof. The thought of driving without air conditioning made me sweat. But I didn’t care. It was twenty minutes of quiet freedom on the way home—all mine.
I rolled down the windows, let the breeze in, and turned up reggae for a perfect beach-vibe getaway.

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