Subarus Aren’t Just for Lesbians

There was a time  long before the betrayal, the chaos, and the estrogen patches  when Checksington LaMail used to say I was safe with him.

Safe.

Like I was a mid-century heirloom he planned to wrap in bubble wrap and place gently into a climate-controlled unit called Our Marriage.

Reader, I was not safe.

Not emotionally.Not financially.And certainly not when it came to transportation.

Let’s rewind. One year, Checksington oh-so-generously “got me” a Volvo lease. Except  twist!  he forgot to pay for it.That minor detail somehow slipped his mind, which is why, to this day, my credit report looks like it belongs to someone who financed a yacht with Monopoly money.

When the Volvo lease finally ended (along with the illusion that this man knew how leases  or life  worked), I naively assumed he’d help me get another car. You know, like a partner. A husband. A person who shared four children and a mailing address with me.

But instead of action, he stalled.Stalled like it was a strategy.Stalled like maybe if he waited long enough, I’d just walk the kids to school in a double stroller and a prayer.

Eventually, he offered a solution  if you can call it that: I could borrow his mom’s car.A two-seater Mercedes convertible.

Because obviously, when you're a mom of four with exactly $0 in your wallet, what you really need is an $80,000 status symbol you can’t put a car seat in.

I wasn’t a single mom yet, but driving that car felt like a preview. A glossy, leather-scented trailer for the full-length feature of You’re On Your Own, Babe.There I was, pulling into school pickup in a luxury car I didn’t own, wearing the expression of someone wondering if they could trade it for groceries.

Honestly, it wasn’t even the absurdity of the car  it was the shame.I wish I’d leaned into it.Blasted Beyoncé. Waved like royalty. Let the wind blow my trauma into a cute little chignon.

But I didn’t. I just gripped the steering wheel, clenched my jaw, and quietly prayed no one looked too closely.

Because if they did, they’d see it:The $80,000 convertible... and the woman inside it, completely bankrupt in every way that mattered.

Eventually, when our oldest was about to turn 16, Checksington made one of his classic Big Promises™:We’d get a Subaru.

A safe, practical, borderline-lesbian vehicle that would be “our family car.” I’d drive it for a year, then it’d become our son’s first car. And then, he promised, I could get something “nicer.”(Translation: less Subaru, more “you can feel special again.”)

Spoiler: the Subaru came.So did the divorce.

And in the grand finale of this emotionally fraudulent three-act play, he left me with the Subaru free and clear  which would’ve been nice… if he hadn’t immediately turned around and bought our son a brand new car for his 16th birthday.

A new car.While I drove the one we agreed would be his.That’s not co-parenting. That’s a power move with a backup camera.

So yes, Subarus are safe.They’re reliable.They have room for kids, dogs, camping gear, and broken dreams.

But don’t let the stereotype fool you, Subarus aren’t just for lesbians.They’re also for betrayed mothers trying to hold it together while driving to middle school band concerts and pretending that getting ghosted by your financial future was just “part of the plan.”

Still, I’m grateful for that car.It runs. It fits everyone. And it taught me a valuable lesson:

Sometimes, the safest place isn’t in the arms of a man who makes promises.It’s behind the wheel of a sensible vehicle he thought would be a consolation prize.

Plot twist, Checksington:

I made it my throne.