It was a quiet night when I decided to finish my shift and head home. My eyes were heavy, and the thought of seeing Sarah and the kids again pulled at my heartstrings. They always asked why I worked so late, and I never had a good answer—except maybe that “bills don’t pay themselves.”
I was about to switch off my taxi’s availability when my phone chirped, signaling one last ride request.
“Not tonight,” I muttered, reaching to decline it. But something made me hesitate.
The address was only ten minutes away, deep in one of those old neighborhoods where the houses were grand but had seen better days, with ivy creeping up their walls and time leaving marks of wear. I could just go home, but the request seemed close enough to make it hard to say no. Plus, every dollar counts.
I accepted the ride, pulled into the evening traffic, and drove through the quiet streets.
When I got to the house, I was a little surprised. It was dark and looked forgotten by time—ivy climbing its walls, paint peeling, no lights on. I honked, but there was no movement inside. I checked the address again. This was definitely the right place.
“Come on, Marcus,” I muttered under my breath. “Just go home.”
But something inside me nagged at me to stay. With a sigh, I parked the car and walked to the front door. I knocked.
“Just a minute!” came a faint voice from inside.
I heard something heavy being dragged across the floor—slow, deliberate. I tapped my fingers nervously on the doorframe.
When the door finally creaked open, I wasn’t greeted by danger, but by a tiny woman—she couldn’t have been younger than ninety. She wore a pale blue pillbox hat and a floral dress that looked like it belonged to another time, maybe the 1960s. A pearl necklace gleamed around her neck.
Behind her, the house felt like a forgotten world. White sheets draped over the furniture like ghosts, and the walls were bare, except for the faded outlines of where pictures had once hung.
I noticed a cardboard box in the corner, filled with old photos, their edges softened from years of handling. The air inside smelled like lavender, like memories.
“Would you carry my bag out to the car?” she asked, pointing to a small, worn suitcase sitting by the door.
“Of course,” I said, offering to help. I grabbed the bag—it was lighter than I expected—and offered her my arm.
She took it, moving with surprising grace, as if we were about to dance instead of navigate the creaky porch steps.
“Watch that third step,” she warned, her voice soft but firm. “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 settled in the taxi, she gave me an address. But then, she hesitated.
“Would you mind taking the long way?” she asked, her voice soft. “Through downtown?”
I glanced at the clock. “It’s not the shortest way.”
“I’m not in a hurry,” she replied, her eyes looking distant. “I’m on my way to hospice.”
My heart tightened in my chest. I glanced at her in the rearview mirror and saw her eyes glisten with unshed tears. The streetlights caught the silver strands of her hair, making it shine 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.”
Only someone without a heart could’ve said no, and I wasn’t that kind of man. I turned off the meter and glanced back at her.
“Which route would you like to take?”
For the next two hours, we drove through the city, with her telling me stories of her life.
She had worked as a secretary at the old Thompson Building for thirty years. She showed me the tiny house where she and her husband, Frank, had lived until he passed away fifteen years ago.
“We saved for seven years to buy that house,” she said, her smile softening as she stared out the window. “Everyone thought we were crazy to want such a small place, but it was perfect for us. See that tall oak tree in the back? Frank built a treehouse for the kids in it.”
When we passed an old, crumbling warehouse, she asked me to slow down. Her eyes lit up, and her voice softened.
“This used to be a ballroom… it’s where I met my husband,” she said, a nostalgic smile crossing her face. “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, he was clumsy to the end,” she laughed softly. “But he was my clumsy fool.” Then her voice grew quiet. “We danced here every anniversary until they tore the place down.”
We both sat in silence, staring at the old building that had once been a place of happiness for her.
I felt a pang of sadness for the world she had lost—the places where she had made so many precious memories, now just shadows of the past. She let out a heavy sigh, and I turned to look at her.
“Thank you for doing this for me,” she said, her voice low. “I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Marcus,” I replied.
She smiled gently. “I’m 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, we arrived at the hospice. Two orderlies came out with a wheelchair to meet us as we pulled up. Margaret reached into her purse to pay me, but I shook my head.
“But you need to make a living,” she protested, her purse still open.
“There are other passengers,” I said, helping her out of the car. She surprised me by wrapping her frail arms around me in a tight, grateful hug.
“You gave an old woman a little joy tonight,” she whispered. “Thank you, Marcus.”
A month later, my dispatcher called me with another request. It was from the same hospice. When I arrived, a man in an expensive suit was waiting outside.
“Marcus?” he asked, his tone businesslike. “I’m Margaret’s attorney. She asked to see you before she passed.”
He led me through a quiet hallway to a dimly lit room where Margaret lay in bed, looking even smaller than I remembered. When I took her hand, it was cold, but she squeezed it weakly.
“I knew you’d come,” she said, her voice soft but full of strength. “I don’t have much time, so listen carefully.”
Her lawyer opened a folder, and Margaret explained she was leaving me her house and life savings—around $100,000.
“Margaret, I can’t accept this,” I said, my voice filled with disbelief.
“Yes, you can,” she replied firmly. “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 peacefully in her sleep. When no one from her family came to claim her, I arranged her funeral.
But on the day of the service, three strangers appeared, dressed in black. They looked angry, like they were there to settle a score.
“We’re her grandkids,” one of them sneered. “Who are you?”
A fourth man stepped forward, his face hard as stone. “And I’m her son. I’m here to settle my mother’s estate.”
I kept quiet as they stormed in, their sudden interest in Margaret sickening me. A week later, court papers arrived accusing me of inheritance fraud. They claimed I had manipulated Margaret for her money.
But Margaret had planned ahead.
“The deceased recorded a statement to be played now,” the judge said.
The courtroom grew silent as Margaret’s face appeared on the screen. She looked tired but determined.
“To my so-called family,” she began, her voice calm but filled with years of pain, “I waited for you. I hoped you would visit me. But for twenty years, you ignored me. 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 sharp and unyielding. “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, and the family’s claims were thrown out.
Standing outside the courthouse, I felt the weight of the past few months settle on me. Margaret had won, and her family was finally held accountable.
That night, I took Sarah and the kids to the park after dinner, and we watched the sunset together. I promised myself I would honor Margaret’s memory—not just by keeping her gifts, but by treating every passenger with the same kindness I showed her that night.
