An 82-year-old woman hired me every Monday just to stare at an old diner. On our fourth trip, a stranger handed her something that brought her to tears. When she finally told me why, I knew I couldn’t just drive her home and forget about it.
I’ve driven rich people around for seven years.
Men with their mistresses.
Women with exotic pets.
Clients treating me like dirt.
Nothing prepared me for Eleanor.
She booked me on a Monday, 11 a.m. Eighty-two years old, pressed coat, pearl earrings, tiny purse.
Nothing prepared me for Eleanor.
“Where to, ma’am?”
“The diner out on the old highway, dear.”
“That’s twenty minutes from here. Meeting someone?”
“Not exactly.”
Not exactly. Great. Very clear. Thank you.
When we got there, she pointed across the lot.
“Where to, ma’am?”
“Park there, please. Where I can see the door.”
“Want me to walk you in?”
“No, thank you.”
She sat for twenty minutes, staring at that door like it owed her money.
Then she said, “Take me home, please.”
I get paid by the mile, not by the question. Mostly.
Mostly.
The next Monday, same ride. Same spot. Same stare.
On the way back, she finally spoke.
“Is someone waiting for you at home, Emily?”
“My daughter. Lily. She’s eight.”
“And her father?”
“Left when she was eleven months old.”
Same spot. Same stare.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He was bad at it anyway.”
I still remember that night word for word.
“Jason, Lily’s not even a year old!”
“I know.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m saying I can’t do this anymore.”
“You can’t do what? Be a father?”
He didn’t answer. He just packed a bag.
He took the good blender, too. I never forgave him for the blender.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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