On March 6, 2026, the big day had finally arrived: the day of all days.
Her practical driving test was coming up — on the third attempt, which, unsurprisingly, did very little to create a relaxed atmosphere. The nerves were intense, because obviously no one wanted this to go wrong again. By the third try, you tend to develop a rather personal relationship with the whole ordeal.
This time, it simply had to work. Not just on principle, but for very practical logistical reasons. A week later, we were supposed to leave for China for two weeks. After that, DongMei and I would stay one more week before flying back ourselves. In other words: three weeks without us. And just to make things even more entertaining, university would start up again immediately after the trip home.
So the obvious question was: how exactly was our daughter supposed to survive three weeks without us?
The answer came quickly: with a German driver’s license.
Because nothing says maturity, independence, and civilized progress quite like being able to drive yourself to the supermarket.
That realization, of course, raised the pressure level even more. As if “third attempt at the driving test” did not already come with enough built-in charm and serenity.
In short: a lot was riding on that morning.
Sure, there was a Plan B in case everything went completely off the rails. A colleague’s daughter could have taken her grocery shopping. Logistically, that might have worked somehow. Socially and emotionally, though, it would probably have been about as pleasant as a failed blind date in the waiting room of a government office. So really, it was more of a theoretical backup plan than a desirable one.
So in the end, there was only one option: take a deep breath and push through.
The test started at 9:30 a.m. She had gone to bed extra early the night before to make sure she’d be well rested — which, as everyone knows, works beautifully when you’ve already been driving nervous laps in your own head for hours.
Her driving instructor picked her up from home that morning. Meanwhile, her mother and I were a complete mess the entire time, crossing everything we could possibly cross: fingers, toes, and probably a few internal organs.
Then at 10:30 a.m., the message finally came.
A photo of a document.
And one short, almost majestic reply:
Done!
That was really all we needed to know. The mission had been a success.
I picked her up from the driving school afterward, and I could tell immediately that the mood had completely changed. No nervous twitching, no dark cloud hanging over her, no ominous silence that suggested disaster — all very encouraging signs. And since we were already in Dingolfing, we drove straight to the licensing office to pick up that magical little piece of plastic that officially turns a person into someone the government allows to operate a car.
After about 15 laps around the block, we actually managed to find a parking spot in front of the building. A small victory in itself, and one that almost deserved its own certificate.
Then it was inside, take a number, and wait patiently until the screen finally called us to Room 3 — that mysterious place where dreams come true and paperwork briefly finds meaning.
We handed over the TÜV letter, received the driver’s license, and headed back to the car.
Finally done.
From that moment on, it was official: she could legally drive, hold a steering wheel with a clear conscience, and join everyone else on the road in doing what drivers do best — hoping the other people are paying a little more attention.
Or, put a little less poetically:
She was finally allowed to cause accidents legally.
