It was a late evening when I decided to wrap up my shift. My eyes were heavy, and my thoughts drifted to Sarah and the kids. They always asked why I worked so late, and I’d never had a good answer for them, except for the old standby: “Bills don’t pay themselves.”
I switched off my taxi’s availability and was just about to head home when my phone buzzed. A ride request popped up.
“Not tonight,” I muttered, reaching for the screen to decline. But something made me hesitate. The address was only ten minutes away, in one of those older neighborhoods with tall Victorian houses on quiet, tree-lined streets.
I sighed. One last ride, one last fare. The pickup point was so close. It didn’t make sense not to take it. Every dollar counts, right?
I accepted the ride and eased my car into the flowing evening traffic.
In no time, I arrived at a dark house. The ivy on the walls looked as though it had been growing there for decades, and the paint, once white, was peeling away. No lights flickered in the windows. I honked my horn, but there was no response. I checked the address again. This was it.
“Come on, Marcus,” I muttered to myself. “Just go home.”
But that nagging feeling wouldn’t leave me. With a heavy sigh, I parked the car and walked up to the front door. I knocked.
“Just a minute!” a frail voice called from inside.
I heard something heavy being dragged across the floor, slow and deliberate. I tapped my fingers on the doorframe, waiting nervously.
When the door finally creaked open, I found myself staring at a tiny woman who could’ve been no younger than ninety. She wore a pale blue pillbox hat, one that looked straight out of the 1960s, and a flowery dress to match. A pearl necklace gleamed around her neck.
The house behind her felt frozen in time. White sheets covered the furniture like ghosts. The walls were bare, except for faded patches where pictures had once hung. A cardboard box sat in the corner, filled with old photographs, their edges softened from years of handling. The air inside smelled of lavender and memories.
“Would you carry my bag out to the car?” she asked, pointing to a small, well-worn suitcase.
“Of course,” I said, surprised by how light it was. I took the bag and offered her my arm.
She took it with surprising grace, almost as if we were about to dance instead of walk down her creaky porch steps.
“Watch that third step,” she warned me. “It’s been loose since 1982. Frank always meant to fix it, but you know how husbands are with their to-do lists.”
Once we were in the taxi, she gave me an address, but then hesitated.
“Would you mind taking the long way? Through downtown?” she asked.
I glanced at the clock. “It’s not the shortest way.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said softly. “I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to hospice.”
Her words hit me like a punch in the gut. I could see the tears brimming in her eyes in the rearview mirror, glistening in the dim light. The streetlights caught the silver in her hair, making it shimmer like starlight.
“I don’t have any family left,” she continued, smoothing her dress with trembling hands. “The doctor says I don’t have much longer.”
I couldn’t bring myself to refuse her request. I wasn’t a man with a cold heart. I turned off the meter, glancing at her in the mirror.
“Which way would you like to go?” I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the quiet city, and she shared stories from her life.
She told me she’d worked as a secretary at the old Thompson Building for thirty years. She showed me the little house where she’d lived with her husband, Frank, until he passed away fifteen years ago.
“We saved for seven years to buy that house,” she said with a soft smile, staring out the window. “Everyone thought we were crazy to want such a small place, but it was perfect for us. See that tall oak in the backyard? Frank built a treehouse there for the kids.”
When we passed an old, crumbling warehouse, she asked me to slow down. Her eyes lit up as she stared at the building.
“This used to be a ballroom… it’s where I met my husband,” she said, her voice full of warmth. “He stepped on my dress during our first dance. I thought he was a clumsy fool.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “And did he prove you wrong?”
“Oh no,” she chuckled softly. “He was clumsy to the end. But he was my clumsy fool.” Her smile faded, and she grew quiet. “We danced here every anniversary until they tore the place down.”
We both stared at the old warehouse, once a place of so many happy memories.
My heart ached for the world she’d lost, for the memories that were slowly being erased by time. She sighed deeply, and I turned to look at her.
“Thank you for doing this for me… I don’t even know your name.”
“Marcus,” I said quietly.
She smiled. “My name’s Margaret. Thank you for taking me to see these places one last time, Marcus. But I’m tired now. Let’s go to the hospice.”
As dawn began to break, I drove her to the address she had given me. Two orderlies came out with a wheelchair as we arrived. When Margaret tried to pay me, I shook my head.
“But you have to make a living,” she protested, her purse open on her lap.
“There are other passengers,” I said, helping her out of the car. She surprised me by wrapping her frail arms around me in a hug.
“You gave an old woman a little joy tonight,” she whispered. “Thank you, Marcus.”
A month later, my dispatcher called. My car had been requested at the same hospice where I had dropped off Margaret. When I arrived, a man in an expensive suit was waiting by the curb.
“Marcus?” he asked. “I’m Margaret’s attorney. She requested to see you before she passes.”
He led me down a quiet hallway to a dimly lit room. Margaret lay in bed, looking even smaller than before. Her hand felt cold when she grasped mine.
“I knew you’d come,” she whispered, her voice weak but determined. “I don’t have much time, so listen carefully.”
Her lawyer opened a folder, and Margaret explained that she was leaving me her house and life savings of around $100,000.
“Margaret, I can’t accept this,” I stammered.
“Yes, you can,” she said firmly, her eyes flashing with a strength I hadn’t seen before. “For twenty years, my family forgot I existed. No calls. No visits. Nothing. You treated me like a person. You saw me.”
I visited Margaret every day until she passed away peacefully in her sleep. When no family members showed up to claim her, I arranged her funeral.
But on the day of the service, three strangers appeared. They were dressed in black, their faces twisted in anger.
“We’re her grandkids,” one of them sneered. “Who are you?”
A fourth man stepped forward, his expression hard as stone. “And I’m her son. I’m here to settle my mother’s estate.”
I felt my stomach churn at their sudden interest in Margaret, but I stayed silent. A week later, court papers arrived at my door.
The family’s lawyers accused me of manipulation and inheritance fraud. They sat smugly in the courtroom, sure they would win. But Margaret had prepared for this.
“The deceased recorded a statement to be played now,” the judge announced.
The room fell silent as Margaret’s face appeared on the screen, tired but resolute.
“To my so-called family,” she began, her voice strong, “I waited for you. I hoped that I might see you one last time. But you ignored me for twenty years. No birthdays. No holidays. Nothing. You don’t get to profit from neglect.”
Her son scoffed, but Margaret leaned closer to the camera, her eyes blazing. “I was of sound mind when I changed my will. Every doctor confirmed it. Every paper is signed. And if you dare claim I was manipulated, ask yourselves why a stranger treated me with more kindness in one night than you did in twenty years.”
The judge dismissed the case immediately, citing Margaret’s clear intent and thorough documentation.
Standing outside the courthouse, I felt the weight of the past few months settling over me. Margaret had won. After decades of silence, she had finally made herself heard.
That night, I took my family to the park, and we watched the sunset together. I promised myself that I would honor Margaret’s memory—not just by keeping the gifts she gave me, but by showing every passenger the same kindness I had shown her that night.
