“Can’t you go any faster, Dad?” Quinn nervously squirms in her seat, an admission packet of papers from Timberline University on her lap. “This is my one shot. And I really want to go here.”

Jonathan, her father, checks the speedometer: 35 mph. “Quinn, it’s 35 here,” he says, pointing at the speed limit sign. They are only a few minutes away.

“But Dad. If you go just a little bit faster, we’ll make it. Right on time.” A Ford F-350 is tailgating him, flashing his high beams at Jonathan. He motions to go around him, the truck flying by, speeding up to almost 50 before slowing down again. Quinn, embarrassed, shrinks into the passenger seat. The driver of the truck, a young twenty-something man, a little older than Quinn, flips him off as he drives by. Jonathan keeps his pace – exactly 35 mph.

A quarter mile up, the F-350 is stopped at the same four-way, waiting on cross traffic, just like everyone else. Jonathan pulls up right behind it, and for a second the two vehicles just sit there, bumper to bumper, going nowhere fast together.

“This is embarrassing, Dad. We’re going to be late.”

“Everyone is going 40,” Quinn protests as another car speeds around them. “See? And if I miss this appointment? It could cost me the scholarship. Daddy, please. Go faster.”

Jonathan smiles. “Honey, I will choose integrity and honesty over everything else. Even if that means being late.” He was ready and waiting for her to go, and Jonathan knew if they had left on time, going the speed limit wouldn’t have mattered.

“Right, Dad. It’s more important than my future, isn’t it?” Quinn’s face turns red, tears brimming in her eyes. “It’s five miles. You could be there in less than five minutes if you did 60 or 70. Just go.”

Jonathan takes a deep breath, pulling over to the side. “What are you doing?!? Dad, keep going! Seriously – don’t. Not right now.”

“Quinn, when I was your age, your grandfather and I were rushing to my first job interview at Bob’s Big Boy. He was driving like a snail. I begged him, just like you are now — go faster, put your foot down, we’ll make it. That’s when he looked at me and said, ‘Jon, if you get this job by compromising who you are? I can guarantee you’ll spend your entire life, probably your whole career, compromising who you could’ve been. Not sure that’s what you want.’”

Jonathan looks at the clock on the car’s dashboard. 11:04 AM.

“Why do you have to be like that?” Quinn huffed. “We’d be there right now if you hadn’t stopped.”

“I’m sorry, Quinn. I’ll bet they are waiting for you to get there anyway.”

“Are you really that stupid, Dad?” Quinn asks, anger tangled up with her tears. “Because right now it feels like you’re choosing stupid over me and my future.” The word lands harder than she means to. But Jonathan remembers what it felt like when he was seventeen, furious at his father for the exact same choice.

He puts on his turn signal and pulls out onto the two-lane highway. “Your grandfather cost me my first job interview this same way. And I ended up hating him for it.”

“So you decided to teach me a lesson too? Do the same thing to me now? Thanks a lot, Dad.”

Jonathan smiled. “No, Quinn. Thirty years later? Now I realize he was totally right. The job I eventually got, the life I built — it all came from learning that who you are matters more than what you get.” He let that sit for a minute. “Even if that means teaching your kiddo a lesson.”

Quinn doesn’t answer. She just looks out the window the rest of the drive to the college. The admissions department chair, Dr. Garrison, met with her for five minutes, Jonathan waiting in the car. Quinn came back to the car, got in, and slammed the door. The ride home was eerily quiet, the noise from the engine and the road the only sounds to be heard for the next forty minutes.  

Quinn didn’t speak to Jonathan for a few days.

A week later, Dr. Garrison called, letting Jonathan know that another student withdrew. “Please let your daughter know there is one slot open, if she’s still interested in attending in the fall.”

Quinn got her driver’s license three weeks later, Jonathan following her on her first long-distance solo drive to the college for her makeup interview, the one Dr. Garrison said she could make up. From a few cars back, Jonathan watches his daughter, signaling at each corner and stopping at every stop sign and traffic light. Reaching the same two-lane highway, he watches her – 35 mph exactly.

Jonathan waits outside for her, Quinn happy to see him in the parking lot. “How was the drive?”

“Felt right. The speed felt right.” Quinn smiled at Jonathan. She’s not talking about the car anymore. He grins.

What’s your 35 mph moment today?