It was my father who instilled the 'never say no' attitude I

Host: The sunlight was beginning to soften — that kind of late-afternoon gold that makes every memory glow sweeter than it was. The road stretched ahead, endless and open, framed by rolling hills and wildflowers bending in the wind. Through the windshield, the horizon shimmered like something promised, not yet earned.

Inside the old blue sedan, dust on the dashboard and laughter in the air, Jack sat in the driver’s seat. His hand rested on the wheel, relaxed but sure. Jeeny, in the passenger seat, leaned her head against the window, watching the world blur by in streaks of green and sunlight.

On the radio, a soft country song faded out, replaced by a calm, thoughtful voice reading a line that made both of them fall quiet.

“It was my father who instilled the ‘never say no’ attitude I carry around with me today, and who instilled in me a sense of wonder, always taking us on adventures in the car, never telling us the destination.”
— Marlee Matlin

Host: The quote drifted through the speakers, light as air — and for a long moment, only the sound of the engine filled the space between them.

Jack: “You know, I think I had a father like that once. Didn’t believe in maps, didn’t believe in plans. Just gas in the tank and the promise of somewhere better.”

Jeeny: “That’s the best kind of faith, isn’t it? Trusting the journey without demanding the destination.”

Jack: “Yeah. Problem is, once you get older, you start wanting the map back. You want to know where you’re going — and how long it’ll take to get there.”

Jeeny: “Because you stop believing wonder can lead anywhere real.”

Jack: smiling faintly “You sound like you’ve rehearsed that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I have. I grew up with a mother like that. Always asking questions, never giving answers. She said, ‘Jeeny, you’ll find what you’re looking for only after you stop looking like you expect to find it.’”

Host: The car rolled through a patch of sunlight, the light flickering over their faces like the rhythm of passing time.

Jack: “Matlin was right. It’s the ‘never say no’ that makes life move. My old man used to wake me up at dawn on Saturdays, toss me in the truck, and just drive. No warning. No reason. Sometimes we’d end up by a lake, sometimes at a flea market, once in a thunderstorm. I didn’t get it then. Now I think he was trying to teach me how to live.”

Jeeny: “By surprise?”

Jack: “By surrender. By saying yes to the unknown.”

Host: Jeeny turned her head toward him, her reflection faintly mirrored in the window — two faces layered, one clear, one blurred.

Jeeny: “You ever think we lose that sense of wonder because life teaches us caution? We start saying no to protect ourselves.”

Jack: “Yeah. But protection’s just another kind of prison.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even prisons have windows.”

Jack: “And the trick is not forgetting to look out.”

Host: They drove on. The road curved gently, winding through a field of tall grass swaying like a sea. A few birds lifted into the air, caught in their own invisible current.

Jeeny: “You know, Marlee Matlin wasn’t just talking about adventure. She was talking about trust. Her father didn’t need to tell her the destination because she trusted the driver.”

Jack: “That’s what wonder is, isn’t it? Trust dressed up as curiosity.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s what we lose when we grow up — trust. Not just in others, but in life itself.”

Jack: “Or maybe in ourselves.”

Host: The light outside began to shift, the sun lowering just enough to stretch their shadows across the dashboard.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my dad told me, ‘If you ever want to see what the world really looks like, stop trying to get somewhere.’ I didn’t understand him then. Thought he was just avoiding traffic.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think he meant that life’s beauty isn’t in the arrival — it’s in the unplanned detours. The things you can’t schedule.”

Jeeny: “Like this drive?”

Jack: grinning “Exactly like this drive.”

Host: The sound of the tires on the asphalt softened as they slowed near a curve. The landscape opened up — a wide view of a valley, golden with wheat, the air shimmering with heat and silence.

Jeeny: “Do you ever miss him?”

Jack: “Every time I find something beautiful and don’t know who to tell.”

Jeeny: “That’s how you know you learned from him. You still talk to him — just without words.”

Jack: “Yeah. Every time I take a wrong turn and it leads somewhere right, I hear his voice: ‘See? You worry too much.’”

Host: They both laughed — softly, warmly — the kind of laughter that sounds like memory being forgiven.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s what Matlin meant by ‘never say no.’ It’s not recklessness — it’s openness. It’s letting the world surprise you.”

Jack: “And letting the past keep teaching you, even when it hurts.”

Jeeny: “Especially when it hurts.”

Host: The sky had begun to glow amber, the horizon painted in orange and blue, like the world was giving them permission to pause. Jack pulled the car to the side of the road. They sat there in silence for a while, the windows down, the warm wind carrying the faint hum of crickets.

Jeeny: “You ever think we spend too much time chasing purpose instead of wonder?”

Jack: “All the time. But I think wonder is purpose — we just forget how to call it that.”

Jeeny: “So where are we headed now?”

Jack: shrugging with a smile “Does it matter?”

Jeeny: “Not one bit.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly — the car small against the vast road, two figures silhouetted against the dying sun. The world looked endless, and for the first time, they didn’t need to know where it led.

The sound of the engine started again — quiet, steady, alive.

And as the car disappeared into the curve of the horizon, Marlee Matlin’s words lingered softly in the golden air — not as nostalgia, but as invitation:

That wonder is not a place,
but a way of moving through the world.

That to say “yes” to the unknown
is not recklessness, but faith disguised as courage.

And that the best journeys —
the ones that make us grow —
are not the ones with destinations,
but the ones that remind us
that the road itself was the gift all along.