From the moment she hobbled out of the house with a nervous smile, clutching a worn-out copy of the Highway Code, I knew this wasn't going to be a normal lesson. "I hope you have more patience than the others," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "They all shouted at me and said I was unteachable. One of them even called me a 'menace to society' and refused to give me back my learner's permit until I promised not to drive ever again." I assured her that we would take our time and go at her pace, no shouting required. We got into the car, and after a few moments of me explaining the basics (again) and her insisting she understood, we were off. Or so I thought.

Brenda put her foot down on the accelerator, and the car lurched forward with a guttural roar, squealing its tires as we shot down the street. I braced myself as we sped toward a red light, yelling "BRAKE! BRAKE, BRENDA, BRAKE!" Brenda slammed on the brake pedal, and the car screeched to a halt, sending my head flying forward into the steering wheel with a sickening thud. I rubbed my temples as I looked over at her, only to see her staring blankly at the dash. "Sorry," she said sheepishly. "My last instructor always said to be decisive. He said indecision was the root of all evil on the road, so I just went for it."

The rest of the lesson was a blur of near misses, close calls, and a few choice words I probably shouldn't have said out loud. Brenda's approach to parallel parking involved a combination of hope, luck, and a few too many bumps into the car in front. She insisted on using the horn to greet every person we passed, from pedestrians on the pavement to people mowing their lawns. "It's polite," she explained with a cheerful wave.

At one point, she confused the gas pedal with the brake pedal and sent us flying into a prize-winning rose bush in a public park. When I asked her what she was doing, she simply smiled and said, "I thought it was a shortcut. The sat nav told me to turn left, but the bush was a bit more direct." We spent the next fifteen minutes carefully extricating the car from the thorny embrace of the roses, while an angry gardener glared at us from a distance.

I dropped her off at home, my nerves shot, my hair a mess, and my knuckles white from gripping the dashboard for dear life. As she got out of the car, she turned to me and gave me a big hug. "Thank you so much!" she said, her eyes shining. "You're the best instructor I've ever had. You didn't even shout once!"

I just nodded, too exhausted to speak. I watched her walk inside, a little spring in her step, and for a moment, I wondered if I was doing her a disservice by not shouting at her. Maybe she needed a firm hand. But then I remembered the look on her face when she was behind the wheel, the pure joy and excitement of finally being in control. Maybe she was unteachable, a true menace on the road, but she was also having the time of her life, and I couldn't bring myself to ruin that for her. I took a deep breath, and as I drove away, I started to wonder what tomorrow's lesson would bring.