Samantha Wasn’t Just A Car

It was 2010, and I was working as an estimator in Suffern, New York—suffering in Suffern, as I used to joke. I worked on “Body Shop Row,” four shops packed so close together you could throw rocks between them. I commuted by train, which was new for me and honestly kind of nice. First time in my life I didn’t have to be alert for every inch of the commute.

I’d usually open up shop around 7:30, even though we didn’t officially start until 8. One morning I rolled in, still craving coffee, and found someone already waiting—early twenties, puffy-eyed, clearly had been crying.

My first thought: Wow, it’s way too early in the morning for this. But I’ve always tried to lead with empathy, so I introduced myself.

Through the tears, she said, “Samantha was in an accident.”

Now, I didn’t know who Samantha was, but this sort of confusion wasn’t unusual in my line of work. I asked gently, “Is Samantha a friend of yours?”

She sniffled and said, “No, Samantha is my car.”

Ah. Got it.

I asked what kind of car Samantha was.

“She’s a pretty blue one.”

I still hadn’t had my coffee.

I let her into the office, sat her down, and started collecting the usual info. Looking out into the lot, I saw Samantha—a very tired early-’90s Toyota Corolla that had clearly been towed in over the weekend.

“I can see she’s here,” I said. “Let’s get your insurance info and I’ll get the claim process started.”

“Is Samantha going to be okay?” she asked.

I looked out at the car again. I already knew the answer.

But instead of saying, She’s toast, I slipped into my well-rehearsed speech: “We’ll document the damage, write a full estimate, and submit it to the insurance company. They’ll ultimately determine whether the vehicle is repairable or a total loss.”

In my head though, it was more like: I’m sorry, we did everything we could—Samantha didn’t make it.

She cried again. I reassured her that we’d do everything we could for Samantha.

Still no coffee.

Later that morning, I walked out to write the estimate on Samantha. She was rough—two front frame rails, aprons, fenders, hood, headlights, grille, bumper, radiator support, condenser, fans. The works. A 1992 Corolla doesn’t come back from that.

Still, I chuckled to myself: That girl really has me calling this thing Samantha.

That afternoon, I called her. I softened the blow as best I could. Told her we’d submit everything, but realistically, Samantha wasn’t going to pull through.

She laughed. Then cried. Told me about all the places she and Samantha had been—school, college, jobs, dates, concerts, even the Jersey Shore with her friends. And because I’m not made of stone, I listened. And I felt bad, too.

I told her she should come by and collect her personal belongings and license plates. She came that afternoon, still emotional, and asked, “How long until they come pick her up?”

“Probably by the end of the week,” I said.

“Would it be okay if I came back tomorrow around lunch?” she asked.

I said sure.

For the next four days, she came back. Lunchtime. Same routine. I’d glance out my office window and see her standing beside Samantha like she was at a gravesite. Sometimes talking. Sometimes silent. Always grieving.

Then Friday rolled around.

I looked out and saw her lying across the hood, sobbing.

Alright. That was enough. I walked out with my coffee in hand and tried to gently intervene.

She told me that Samantha was her first car—bought with babysitting money. That Samantha had gotten her to class, to concerts, to jobs and boyfriends and beach trips. She apologized for being emotional, for acting “crazy” over a car.

But she wasn’t crazy. She had bonded with that car. It had been there through her formative years. It meant something.

At the time, I hadn’t had a car I was that sentimental about. Eventually I would. I still never sobbed across the hood of one—but I get it now.

That train ride home, I thought a lot about her and Samantha. And I made myself a promise: I wouldn’t write people off as over-emotional or “looney tunes” just because they got attached to a hunk of metal.

Because sometimes, it’s not just a car.

Sometimes, it’s a witness to your whole young life.

That moment changed how I did my job—and truthfully, it made me better at it.

P.S. If you're lucky, your first car will just get you from point A to B. But if you're really lucky, it’ll stick with you long enough to become something more.