My name is Sheila. I’m fifty-six, and I drive for a rideshare app. It’s not glamorous, and it’s not how I imagined my fifties would go. But when the pandemic shut down my husband’s hardware store, we lost more than a business—we lost the security we’d spent decades building. So, I did what I had to do. I started driving. Some nights are good, some are tough. But one night—a night I’ll never forget—something happened that reminded me how the world has a way of restoring balance.
It was a Friday night, just after nine. The downtown streets were alive with laughter and music from nearby bars. I was tired, ready to call it a night, when a premium ride request popped up on my screen. Just one more, I thought. When the passengers climbed into my backseat, I knew right away what kind of ride it would be.
The man wore a sharp blazer and a watch that seemed designed to be noticed. The woman beside him was perfectly styled—beautiful, confident, and distant. They didn’t say hello. They just got in, as if stepping into a private car service.
“Seriously?” the man muttered, glancing around my old Corolla. “This is premium?” His tone was mocking. I smiled politely. “Seatbelts, please,” I said. He smirked, and the woman laughed softly. I turned up the GPS and started driving.
Their laughter continued. “I bet she drives slow so she doesn’t spill her tea,” the man joked. “Oh, look—she has a crocheted seat cover! My grandma had one of those too,” the woman added with a laugh. “No offense.”
I said nothing. I’ve learned silence can be more powerful than reaction. But then the man leaned forward and said, “Can you avoid the highway? My girlfriend gets carsick.”
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