For nearly three years, we lived inside a corporate-sponsored auto utopia where cars appeared, tires got rotated, and nobody asked us about titles or GAP coverage. When my wife’s job changed, that ended. We looked at the cars, realized we liked them, and bought the exact same ones we’d already been driving. No test drives, no salesman with a clipboard—we already knew where all the cupholders were.

Because the cars came through her job, Judy’s the official buyer. Which meant either a power of attorney got signed, or she handles the plates herself. I prefer the second option.

The titles were taking a while. Wedding planning was not, because we were simultaneously finding a replacement photographer and helping the bride and groom absorb the casual bombshell that their caterer was closing a few weeks after the reception. Will the staff hold up? Will the food? I have no idea—I’m not paying for it, which is apparently the exact point where my opinion expires.

Judy emailed Toyota asking for a status update. That afternoon, the titles showed up via FedEx Next Day. I saw the email she sent. It was not the kind of prose that normally bends interstate logistics to its will, but somehow a file moved from limbo to “arrived” on Friday, May 8th. The paperwork had finally caught up to reality—we’d had insurance since the day we came off the lease, and technically owned the cars before the titles showed up, but this was the moment it was all official.

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We headed southwest to Newcastle for dinner. When you spend your days with a grandchild, getting out and going somewhere becomes necessary for everyone involved. We picked an Italian place that was probably better than this review. The eggplant parmigiana leaned heavily toward breading, with the eggplant in more of a supporting role. Judy’s meatballs fully met expectations, which is really all meatballs are ever trying to do. The door had a sign: “Your first two breadsticks are Free.” They were fine. The dipping sauce was the real overachiever.

Walking out, the clouds had clearly decided Newcastle needed to be included in whatever was happening to the north.

Rain started as we got in the car. Then hail. And why do we call them hailstones? Stones sounds peaceful, geological. These sounded like someone upstairs had a personal grievance with our roof. We pulled off at the first exit and tried to dodge the bigger ones—the hail decides where it lands and you’re basically just emotionally participating in your own damage. Most of it was pea-sized, but every storm has a few overachievers.

The real problem was traffic. Our first exit east off 44 is everybody’s first exit east off 44, and the stop sign that’s normally fine turned into a quarter-mile line of vehicles getting assaulted by ice. No Batmobile button. No bulletproof mode. Just “accept everything the sky wants to give you.”

Through all of it, Judy narrated the car’s suffering. My poor car. What is going on out there? My poor car doesn’t deserve this. She was right, too—we’d driven those cars for three years without a single hail dent. The first day the paperwork made them officially ours, the heavens started freelancing as a body shop.

Eventually traffic moved. Judy declined to perform the traditional Oklahoma courtesy wave at the stop sign and took everyone’s patience as a green light. She shot home, pulled into the garage at speed, skipped the obstacle inspection entirely. We’re grandparents with bases for future car seats already stockpiled in there—none of them were harmed.

Back inside, hail was piled in the flower beds. The yard looked like the weather had thrown a tantrum. We got in the hot tub anyway, because if life lightly damages your property, the reasonable response is warm water and mild defiance.

Later, in pajamas, we noticed the FedEx envelope on the counter. The titles. Official proof we owned the cars. We’d driven them for three years through every Oklahoma storm without incident, and on the day the paperwork finally arrived—that.

I could decide life is unfair. Or I could go with the version that preserves my sanity: God has a sense of humor, and Friday was a gentle reminder about who’s actually steering. I’m glad he’s jovial. I’m especially glad he didn’t laugh harder.