Dear Diary,
Today I found myself more a counsellor than a cab driver. The day began with a sharp clack of a leather handbag on the passenger seat. “I don’t understand why you’re dawdling! When it’s green, we go, not sit!” an elderly lady huffed, drumming her fingertips on the bag.
“Sorry, madam, there’s a car ahead. I can’t just plough through it,” I replied calmly, eyes fixed on the road.
“My appointment with my daughter is at ten! Find another way!” she persisted.
“The traffic’s snarled. Let’s just be patient,” I said, glancing into the rear‑view mirror.
She sighed heavily, leaning back. “Heavens, this is a nightmare. First the argument, now the delay…”
The cab inched forward down a bustling London street. I, James Whitaker, watched the woman—about sixty, dressed in a tasteful light‑grey suit, her hair neatly trimmed—fidget with the clasp of her handbag. Her lower lip trembled ever so slightly.
“Sometimes the most important meetings are delayed a bit. Fate gives us a moment to gather our thoughts,” I said, surprising both of us.
She turned toward me, eyebrows raised. “Is that you?”
“Yes. You mentioned an argument. Perhaps this jam is a chance to think about what you’ll say to your daughter?” My voice was steady, a low baritone.
“I didn’t ask for advice,” she snapped, then exhaled sharply. “But… I did argue with my daughter. She wants to move abroad, thinks there’s no future here. And I’ll be left alone.”
“My name’s James Whitaker,” I introduced myself. “Passengers often share their stories with me. Maybe it will ease yours.”
She softened a little. “Gwendolyn Hart,” she replied. “It’s a long story… My daughter thinks life will be better in Canada. What Canada? What does she expect to find there? And here I am, knitting caps for my grand‑kids that they’ll never wear.”
I halted at a traffic light, pondering. “My son left for Canada ten years ago. I was against it at first.”
“How did you cope?” she asked, genuine curiosity in her voice.
“At first I was angry, ignored his calls. Then I realised I was wasting precious time. Holding a grudge is like carrying a lead weight in your pocket—only you suffer.” I smiled as the light turned green and we slipped back into the flow.
“It’s easy to say,” she sighed. “Does he still call?”
“Every week we video‑chat. He calls me ‘Granddad Jay’. I even visited them last year—my first trip abroad after my wife passed.”
“Weren’t you scared, being alone in a foreign land?” she wondered.
“Terrified, of course. But seeing his happy eyes and the grandchildren’s smiles makes any fear vanish. The world isn’t as big as it seems; distance lives mostly in our heads.”
She stared out the window, thoughtful. “I just don’t get why she’s unhappy here. She has a good job, a nice flat…”
“Did you ever ask her why, without accusation?” I steered around a pothole. “When I retired from the factory after thirty years as a mechanical engineer, I learned people need to be heard more than advised.”
“You really help people like that?” she asked, a hint of irony.
“Sometimes I think so. Just last month a nervous student forgot his engagement ring. We turned back, retrieved it, and he called to tell me she said yes.”
She chuckled. “You have an interesting job.”
“The people are interesting,” I corrected. “In the fifteen minutes we’ve shared, I can see you’re a loving mother, terrified of ending up alone.”
She pulled a silk scarf from her bag. “It’s natural to fear solitude, but even more natural to want happiness for our children, even if it doesn’t fit our expectations.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “How did you know my son was truly better off in Canada?”
“I didn’t ‘know’; I accepted his choice. When I stopped trying to pull him back, our bond grew. We now speak openly about everything.”
The cab slowed at a red light, and I turned to her. “You seem to be trying to convince your daughter to stay, not reconcile. Am I right?”
She lowered her gaze. “Probably. I’ve rehearsed speeches about family tradition, about how children shouldn’t abandon their parents…”
“What if you simply listened today? Ask why Canada, what draws her there? Perhaps she fell in love, or landed a dream job as a designer?”
“There’s a friend she’s staying with,” she admitted reluctantly. “She says the conditions there suit her profession.”
“Then maybe you could learn a bit about Canada together, show you respect her decision. Even promise a visit?”
“I’m terrified of flying. I’ve never been abroad,” she whispered.
“I was terrified too,” I said, smiling. “I didn’t board a plane until I was sixty‑two. Fear is only the imagination of what might happen. Once you’re in the air, it’s merely a ride.”
She watched the spring‑blooming trees glide past, apple blossoms white against the sky. “What if she never returns?”
“Then perhaps you’ll find a new path, maybe even spend part of the year with her. Life is full of surprises when we stay open.”
She sighed. “You’re a remarkable man, James. A taxi‑philosopher.”
“Just a man who’s made many mistakes,” I replied. “My wife died five years ago of cancer. We never got to finish our plans. That taught me not to waste time on grudges but to spend it on love.”
The cab veered onto a quiet lane lined with chestnut trees. “We’re almost there. May I give you one last piece of advice?”
She nodded.
“Give your daughter a tight hug, no words needed. Then ask how you can help, not how to stop her. Feel the difference.”
We pulled up outside a cosy café with climbing vines on its terrace. “We’ve arrived,” I announced.
She fished out her wallet, paid, and lingered at the door. “James, you’ve helped me more than any of my friends this month. May I have your number? I might need more than a ride sometime.”
I handed her a card. “Happy to help. Don’t keep your daughter waiting.”
She waved goodbye, then turned back to smile. I watched her disappear inside, then drove on. The rest of the day was filled with a silent businessman heading to the airport, a young couple laden with building supplies, and a boisterous group of teenagers bound for the shopping centre. As evening fell, I received a new request for “Magnolia Mall”.
When I arrived, a nervous woman stepped out of the shadows, her brown eyes and habit of fiddling with her purse reminding me of Gwendolyn. “Good evening,” I greeted. “Where to?”
“Lime Street, 57, please,” she said, already glued to her phone.
A few minutes later she asked, “Do you know any good family lawyers?”
I shook my head. “What’s the story, if you don’t mind?”
She sighed. “I’m getting a divorce after twenty years. His endless trips have left me feeling alone.”
“Twenty years is a long time,” I reflected. “Did you try talking?”
“I’ve spoken a hundred times. He only thinks about work. I’m not a person to him any more. I’ve gathered the papers; tomorrow I’ll file.”
I fell silent for a moment, then asked, “Do you remember how you met?”
She looked puzzled. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Just curious. Sometimes the beginning sheds light on the present.”
She smiled faintly. “At
