For my dad, that memory is chrome and loud, with side exhausts and a 427 engine under the hood. For me, I had two “firsts.” One I wrecked. The other, a midnight purple 1994 Chevy Beretta, carried me through my college days filled with late-night drives, mixtapes, and more roadtrips that I can count.
A couple of years ago, during a pre-Christmas brunch, I asked my Dad to tell me about his first car. I pressed record on my phone, and the story that unfolded was part muscle car, part hard-won triumph, and part father sharing a memory his daughter would keep for a lifetime.
