What Not to Say When Your Parents Gift You a Car for Graduation

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My first vehicle was my parents’ trusty old Chevy Chevette, which had seen a few good years before I took the wheel during my senior year of high school. It was practical and reliable but definitely not eye-catching. The car I truly dreamed of, however, was a vibrant red VW Golf. It was the embodiment of my youthful spirit—fun, zippy, and stylish.

When college application season rolled around, my parents, especially my mom, narrowed my choices down to schools within Connecticut. I sensed this was her subtle way of steering me toward Fairfield University, a mere 20 minutes from our home. This was the last place I wanted to go, mainly because it felt too close to home and my mom’s watchful eye. Regardless, she kept insisting, taking me on campus tours—once under gloomy skies and again on a sunny day, hoping to sway my decision. Then came the sweetener.

“If you choose Fairfield,” she offered with a grin, “we’ll get you a car. Your pick!” Naturally, being a typical teenager, I fell for this enticing bait. I applied, got accepted, and signed my acceptance papers, eagerly anticipating the keys to my beloved Golf. But when I reminded my mom about “our deal,” she laughed dismissively.

“Oh, the car? That’s only if you live at home and commute to school.”

Oops, I must have skipped the fine print. Living at home during college? No thanks! So, my college journey began without a car, a bitter taste of betrayal lingering from my mother’s bait-and-switch.

Fast forward four years, and just before graduation, my phone rang. It was my parents, brimming with excitement.

“We have a graduation gift for you!” my mom exclaimed. “We got you… a CAR!!”

In that moment, my heart swelled with gratitude, believing my parents were finally delivering on their promise.

“Thank you, thank you!” I gushed, then asked, “So, it’s the red Golf?”

“Nope, it’s a Toyota!” she replied, her enthusiasm feeling a tad forced.

“What type of Toyota?” I probed.

A long pause followed, raising my suspicions.

“It’s a Corona,” she finally said.

“A what?” I asked, genuinely confused. The only Toyotas I recalled were the Corolla and Camry.

“No, it’s a Corona,” she reiterated, sounding evasive. My dad seemed to have vanished from the call. My college experience had taught me to be skeptical.

“I’ve never heard of a Corona. What year is it?”

Another lengthy pause ensued before she replied, “1979.”

“Wait, you bought me a 1979 Toyota CORONA??” I stammered, incredulous. My initial excitement evaporated, replaced by disbelief. Had they really gifted me a beat-up, 13-year-old vehicle? As a freshly minted college graduate, I felt I deserved some say in this matter.

In a moment of poor judgment, I expressed my disappointment to my mom. I don’t recall her exact words, but I do remember hearing “spoiled” and “ungrateful” before the call abruptly ended. I was left staring at the dial tone, feeling a confusing mix of anger and guilt.

But the bottom line was this: my parents had given me a car. Regardless of the details, it was a generous gesture, especially given the economic climate of 1992. I swallowed my pride, called them to apologize, and thanked them profusely.

Once I moved back in with my parents, I finally laid eyes on the Corona. Technically silver, its color had faded to a dull matte finish. The interior that was once red had faded to an unappealing mauvey-pink. It was classified as a “liftback,” which basically meant it looked like a sedan that had lost a fight. But I told myself looks weren’t everything—until I found myself stuck at a traffic light, idling like it was about to have a seizure. Merging onto the highway? An adrenaline-pumping near-death experience.

In short, the Corona was a big, matte-silver lemon. When my job at Barnes & Noble required a reliable commute, my parents finally accepted that I needed a vehicle that could actually drive. So, I swapped cars with my mom, who had a sprightly 1988 Mercury Tracer that I drove until I got married (and lent to my father during my wedding weekend, but that’s a tale for another day).

As for the infamous Corona? My sister inherited it and gave it the ironic nickname “The Bullet.” Ultimately, it became too problematic to keep, and one of my cousins took it off our hands. However, while parked overnight at the local train station, car thieves attempted to steal it—but the Corona refused to go without a fight. It was found later, abandoned and blocking the parking lot exit.

The Corona’s life ended as it had lived: shrouded in confusion, disappointment, and the sound of backfiring.

For more on navigating the ups and downs of parenthood and life’s unexpected gifts, check out some of our other blogs, like this one on home insemination. If you’re curious about fertility journeys, visit this great resource. Additionally, the CDC offers excellent insights on pregnancy and home insemination at this link.

In the end, whether it’s a car or a life lesson, sometimes the journey is more important than the destination.

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