The difference 25 years makes.

I fell for Max in 1998. I was looking for something slightly different, but once we went out for that first drive, I stopped looking. Not quite one of a kind, Max was number 5,110 out of 7,500 10th Anniversary edition Mazda Miatas.

My mom declared Max “The One”. “It matches your personality. It says, ‘I don’t give a damn about anyone but myself.’” She meant it as a compliment.

Fresh off the ending of a marriage, good friends had been lost in the divorce and others had moved away. Who needed more? The six-speed two-seater with sports suspension zipped through traffic and turned road trips into adventures. Soaking up the sun with the top down made a rush-hour commute feel like a day at the beach.

Max had some limitations, but my feelings for this car ran deep. So deep that years later, remarried and pregnant, the new SUV I’d bought for a growing family just sat in the driveway collecting dust. For months.

Then a morning came when my husband gently took a seat next to me on the edge of the bed. His voice soft with compassion, he broke the news: My seven-month-pregnant belly was simply too close to the steering wheel to be safe. I broke down and sobbed. It was the end of my personal era.

It was Max’s turn to collect dust. For years. New performance tires arrived to replace those rotted from disuse instead of worn from wear. Batteries, too, were often dead beyond revival.

Ruy and Christian at PBC Auto – my trusted Miata specialists – would breathe new life into Max periodically. On one such occasion, I asked if there was anything else we needed to do to keep Max in good condition. Simple: “More love. Drive it.”

Ruy was right. I hadn’t fallen out of love. But the characteristics I’d so appreciated before children were liabilities. One son detested the loud and low-to-the-ground experience. He had to fold his long legs to fit. Also, there were three of us, and only two seats.

A few years ago, time turned my precious passengers into teenage drivers. The family SUV became largely their shared vehicle. Finally, I resumed driving Max like I meant it. It’s not quite the same experience, though. The hands on the wheel belong to my boys’ mom. I take extra care so I get to share more days with them. I protect their mom so she can be there if they need her.

Max and I will never fit together in the way we once did. I’m not the girl that took the wheel that first day. I don’t know where that girl who didn’t give a damn about anyone but herself went. She got out of this car a long time ago.