I climbed into the lorry because a wave of sorrow washed over me… but what she was hiding beneath her seat chilled me to the bone.
For years, Ive been driving my lorry along the roads between Manchester, Sheffield, and Leeds. Ive hauled all sortscement, timber, fruit, car partsnever once did I carry a story that would shake me to the core.
The other day, I picked up old Mrs. Dorothy.
I noticed her walking along the edge of the dual carriageway, pressed hard against the crash barrier, every step heavy and careful. She wore a worn navy coat, scuffed old shoes, and carried a battered little suitcase tied with string.
“Son are you heading into town?” she asked quietly, her voice thick with that weighty patience only English mothers carryone born of more endurance than complaint.
“Hop in, love. Ill give you a lift,” I replied.
She sat upright, hands clasped in her lap. She gripped a rosary and stared out the rain-splattered window, silent, as if she was silently saying goodbye to something unseen.
After a long pause, she spoke, matter-of-factly:
“Theyve turned me out, sonny.”
No tears.
No raised voice.
Just a tired resignation.
Her daughter-in-law had said it straight:
“You dont belong here anymore. Youre just in the way.”
Her bags had been left by the door.
And her son her own son
stood there. Silent. Didnt utter a word in her defence.
Can you imagine? To raise a child on your own, to nurse him through fevers, split a slice of stale bread in half, walk everywhere because there just wasnt money for the bus And then one day, the one youve loved most just looks at you like youre a stranger.
Mrs. Dorothy didnt argue.
She just slipped on her coat, picked up her case, and left.
We drove on in silence. After a while, she passed me a few dry digestive biscuits wrapped in cling film.
“My grandson used to love these when he still came round,” she whispered.
Thats when I realized
I wasnt just giving someone a ride.
I was carrying a mothers grief. A burden far heavier than any lorry load.
When we stopped to stretch our legs, I caught sight of a few carrier bags under her seat. Something gnawed at me.
“What have you got there, Mrs.?”
She hesitated, then unfastened her suitcase.
Beneath the carefully folded cardigansmoney.
Saved over years.
“My savings, son. My pension, a bit here and there from knitting, neighbours helping out all meant for the grandkids.”
“Does your son know?”
“No. He mustnt.”
No bitternessjust a raw, fathomless sadness.
“Why havent you spent any on yourself?”
“I thought Id grow old with them. Now, they wont even let me see the child. Told him Im gone away.”
Her eyes grew glossy with tears.
My own throat tightened at the sight.
I told her she shouldnt be carrying money like that.
Even in England, people get robbed for less.
I took her into the nearest town, straight to the bank. Not to buy a new house, but simply so shed be safe.
After she paid the money in, she stepped outside and took in a deep, trembling breath, as though shed shrugged off a burden that had crushed her for years.
“So where next?” I asked.
“To a friend in the village. Shes offered me a room. Just for a bit until Im back on my feet.”
Thats where I dropped her off.
She tried to press a tenner into my hand.
I refused.
“Youve given enough already, Mrs.”
“Now, please just try to live.”
Sometimes life brings us face to face with people the world has cast aside
just to remind us how easy it is to drive a mother out
and just how hard it is to live with yourself after.
