Moving from San Antonio to Denton was supposed to be a new beginning.

Now just for the record, my mother was brilliant. Truly brilliant. But she could never quite finish things—like a college degree. Her interests were always changing. One semester it might be literature, the next psychology, the next something entirely different. Committing to a major felt, to her, like committing to a single version of herself. Many times she would simply sit in on classes, soaking up knowledge without worrying about credit hours or transcripts. She loved learning—just not the structure that came with it.

This time, though, she was determined. And I agreed to help her move.

We packed everything she owned into an old station wagon—one of many clunker cars that defined my childhood. Before leaving town, we made a stop at IHOP, where she’d worked to collect her final paycheck. I waited in the car surrounded by all her earthly possessions while she went inside. When she came back out with that check in hand, it felt official. We were really doing this.

This would have been the late ’70s. Today, that drive takes about five hours—around 300 miles. But I’m a Texan, and we measure distance in hours, not miles. Back then, speed limits were lower and the roads weren’t what they are now. It took us the majority of the day.

I remember exactly what I was wearing: a white T-shirt and shorts. Why? Because somewhere along the way, I fell asleep holding an orange juice. When I woke up, I was no longer wearing white. That sticky, citrus-soaked shirt was proof of how long the drive already felt.

About four hours in, the station wagon got a flat tire.

Now here’s the thing—getting to the spare required unloading every single box and bag onto the side of the road. We emptied her entire life onto the Texas shoulder, only to discover there was no spare tire.

None.

So we loaded everything back in.

Eventually, a stranger stopped and offered to help. He drove us to the next town to find a tire, then brought us back. Looking back, that kind of trust feels almost unreal now. But back then, it was just what you did. You helped. You hoped. You kept moving.

We finally got the new tire on and finished the drive. By the time we reached Denton, we were exhausted. I don’t remember how I got home. It probably involved a Greyhound Lines bus. I took several Greyhound trips growing up because my mom was, in many ways, a bit of a gypsy. She rarely stayed anywhere longer than three years before chasing the next idea, the next opportunity, the next version of herself.

She wasn’t what you’d call a conventional mother. Things could be wild. Unpredictable. My childhood was a rollercoaster.

But here’s the thing about my mother: she lived in the moment.

And on that long, sticky, flat-tire-filled drive to Denton, that was exactly what we were doing.