“Would you carry my bag to the car?” she asked, gesturing to a small, worn suitcase.
I picked it up, surprised by how light it was. “Of course. Happy to help.”
As I escorted her down the steps, she warned, “Watch that third step. Frank always meant to fix it, but you know how husbands are.”
The wistfulness in her voice made me smile. Who was Frank, I wondered? And why did she need a taxi at this hour?
A Drive Through the Past
Once she was settled, she gave me an address but then hesitated. “Would you mind taking the long way? Through downtown?”
I glanced at the time. “It’s not the shortest route.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” she replied softly. “I’m on my way to hospice.”
Her words hit me hard. I glanced at her in the rearview mirror—her eyes glistened, but she didn’t cry.
“I don’t have any family left,” she said, her hands trembling in her lap. “The doctor says I don’t have long.”
My throat tightened. Only someone with a heart of stone could have refused her request. I reached forward and switched off the meter.
“Which route would you like to take?”
For the next two hours, we drove through the sleeping city, passing landmarks that held pieces of her life. She pointed out the building where she worked as a secretary for thirty years, the tiny house she and Frank had saved for seven years to buy, and an old warehouse that made her eyes light up.
“This used to be a ballroom,” she whispered. “It’s where I met my husband. He stepped on my dress during our first dance. I thought he was a clumsy fool.”
I chuckled. “Did he prove you wrong?”
“Oh no,” she laughed. “He was clumsy to the end. But he was my clumsy fool.”
We sat in silence for a moment, staring at the abandoned building that had once been filled with music and laughter.
“Thank you for this,” she murmured. “I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Marcus.”
She smiled. “My name is Margaret. Thank you, Marcus. But I’m tired now. Let’s go to the hospice.”
A Final Goodbye… And an Unexpected Gift
By the time dawn stretched across the sky, I pulled up to the hospice. Two orderlies came out with a wheelchair. When Margaret tried to pay, I shook my head.
“But you have to make a living,” she insisted, fumbling for her purse.
“There are other passengers,” I said.
She surprised me by pulling me into a gentle hug. “You gave an old woman a little joy tonight. Thank you, Marcus.”
A month later, I received a call from dispatch. My taxi had been specifically requested at the hospice.
When I arrived, a man in an expensive suit was waiting. “Marcus? I’m Margaret’s attorney. She requested to see you before she passes.”
I followed him down a quiet hall to a dimly lit room. Margaret looked smaller than ever, but when she gripped my hand, her fingers were firm.
“I knew you’d come,” she said weakly. “I don’t have much time, so listen carefully.”
Her lawyer opened a folder, and my breath caught when Margaret explained that she was leaving me her house… and her entire life savings of $100,000.
“Margaret, I can’t accept this,” I stammered.
“Yes, you can,” she insisted, her voice stronger than before. “For twenty years, my family forgot I existed. No calls. No visits. But you—you treated me like a person. You saw me.”
I visited her every day until she passed peacefully in her sleep. No family showed up. So, I arranged her funeral myself.
But on the day of the service, three strangers appeared, their faces pinched with entitlement.
“We’re her grandkids,” one scoffed. “Who are you?”
A fourth man stepped forward, his face like stone. “I’m her son. I’m here to settle my mother’s estate.”
I clenched my jaw but said nothing. A week later, court papers arrived at my door.
A Legal Battle… and Margaret’s Final Victory
The family’s expensive lawyers accused me of manipulation and inheritance fraud. They sat smugly in court, sure they would win.
But Margaret had anticipated everything.
“The deceased recorded a statement to be played now,” the judge announced.
Margaret’s face appeared on the screen, weary but resolute.
“To my so-called family,” she began. “I waited for you. I hoped to see you one last time. But for twenty years, you ignored me. No birthdays. No holidays. You don’t get to profit from neglect.”
Her son scoffed, but Margaret leaned closer to the camera, her eyes sharp as ever.
“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.
Outside the courthouse, I took a deep breath. Margaret had won.
That night, I took my family to the park and watched the sunset with them—vowing to never let time slip away.