“Don’t you see you’re supposed to go on the green, not sit there!” the elderly lady tapped the edge of her leather handbag with impatient fingers, her voice sharp from the back seat.
“Sorry, ma’am, there’s a car stopped ahead. I can’t just drive through it,” the taxi driver replied calmly, eyes fixed on the road.
“I must be on time for my daughter’s appointment! Find another way!” she persisted.
“It’s a jam, you can see it yourself. Let’s just be patient,” John Whitaker said, glancing at the rear‑view mirror.
“Good heavens, what a nightmare!” she sighed heavily, leaning back. “Everything always goes wrong. First the argument, now the lateness…”
The cab inched forward along a crowded London street. John, a stout man in his early sixties, watched the passenger through the mirror. The lady, about sixty, wore a tasteful charcoal suit and a neat bob, her lower lip trembling ever so slightly.
“You know, sometimes the most important meetings are delayed a bit. Fate gives us a moment to collect our thoughts,” John said unexpectedly.
She turned her head toward the driver’s shoulders. “Is that you?”
“Yes. You mentioned the argument. Perhaps this traffic jam is a chance to think about what you’ll say to your daughter,” he added, his voice deep and steady.
“I didn’t ask for advice,” she snapped, then exhaled again. “But… I did argue with my daughter. She wants to leave the country, thinks there’s no future here. And I… I’ll be left alone.”
“My name’s John Whitaker,” he introduced himself. “People often share their stories with me. Maybe it will ease your mind.”
Something in his tone softened her.
“Eleanor Sutherland,” she replied. “It’s a long story… My daughter thinks she’ll have a better life in Australia. What Australia? What does she expect to find there? And here I am, knitting hats for my grandchildren that they’ll never wear.”
John stopped at a traffic light, thought for a moment, then said, “My son moved to Canada ten years ago. I was against it at first.”
“How did you cope?” Eleanor asked, genuine curiosity in her voice.
“At first I was angry. I ignored his calls. Then I realised I was wasting precious time. Life’s short, and holding a grudge is like carrying a heavy stone in your pocket – it only hurts you,” he said.
The cab rolled forward again, threading through the flow of traffic.
“It’s easy to say,” Eleanor sighed. “Does your son still call?”
“Every week, actually. We video‑chat, I see my grandchildren and they call me ‘Granddad John’. Last year I flew out to visit them – my first trip abroad.”
“Weren’t you scared, being alone in a foreign land?”
“Of course. But when I saw my son’s happy eyes and the kids’ laughter, all fear vanished. The world isn’t as big as it seems; distance lives more in our heads than on the map.”
Eleanor 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?”
“What did I ask?”
“Why she truly wants to go. Without blame, without accusation?”
She fell silent. The city outside buzzed with the sounds of a spring morning.
“No, I think I just told her she was ungrateful, that she was abandoning her mother,” she admitted.
“Perhaps start with questions?” John steered around a pothole. “I became a cab driver after I retired from the factory where I’d worked thirty years as an engineer. In all that time I learned what people need most: someone to listen, without judgment or unsolicited advice.”
“You really help people that way?” Eleanor asked, a hint of irony in her tone.
“I’m not sure if it’s help, but many seem calmer when the ride ends. Just last month I drove a young man who’d forgotten an engagement ring. We turned back, fetched it, and he called me later to tell me she’d said yes.”
Eleanor smiled despite herself. “You have an interesting job, John Whitaker.”
“People are the interesting part,” he corrected. “Each carries a story. In the fifteen minutes we’ve shared, I already know you’re a loving mother, frightened of ending up alone.”
“You say that so easily…” she pulled a handkerchief from her bag.
“It’s natural to fear solitude, but even more natural to wish happiness for our children, even if that happiness 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. I simply accepted his choice. And you know what? When I stopped trying to pull him back, we grew closer. We now talk about everything. I know what’s on his mind, and he knows mine. That never happened before.”
The cab halted at a red light. John turned to face his passenger fully. He was a man of sixty‑five, with a neatly trimmed silver beard and thoughtful grey eyes.
“Eleanor, forgive my bluntness, but it sounds like you’re not trying to reconcile, but to persuade your daughter to stay. Am I right?”
She lowered her gaze. “Probably. I’ve rehearsed a whole speech about family traditions, about how a child shouldn’t abandon their parents…”
“What if you simply listened today? Asked why Australia, what draws her there? Maybe she fell in love, or landed a dream job as a designer?”
“She does have a friend there, a university mate. She says the conditions for her profession are better,” Eleanor admitted reluctantly.
“Exactly. And what do you know about Australia?”
“Barely anything – the carnival, cricket, coffee,” she shrugged.
“Then perhaps you could learn together. Show respect for her choice. Maybe even promise a visit?”
“I’m terrified of flying. I’ve never been abroad,” she confessed.
“I was too, until I was sixty‑two. I never boarded a plane before then. I thought, ‘What’s there to fear? Life’s only once.’ The worst part is imagining the fear; once you’re on the plane, it’s tolerable.”
She watched the houses and trees blur past. The spring blossoms were at their peak, apple trees lining the road in white bloom.
“What if she never returns?” she whispered.
“What if she does? Or what if you find yourself enjoying a stay there and decide to spend part of the year with her? Life is full of surprises, Eleanor, especially when we keep our minds open.”
“You’re a remarkable man, John Whitaker. A philosopher behind the wheel.”
“Just a man who’s made many mistakes and lost much because of stubbornness. My wife, Martha, died five years ago of cancer. It happened so fast we barely said goodbye. All the plans we had vanished. That’s why I tell people not to waste time on grudges, but to spend it on love.”
The taxi turned off the main road onto a quiet lane shaded with chestnut trees.
“We’re almost there,” John said. “May I offer one final piece of advice?”
“Please,” Eleanor replied.
“Give your daughter a tight hug, no words needed. Then ask how you can help, not how you can stop her. Feel the difference.”
The cab pulled up in front of a small tea shop draped with climbing vines.
“We’ve arrived,” John announced. “All the best for your meeting.”
Eleanor opened her bag, paid, and lingered by the doorway.
“John Whitaker, you’ve helped me more than any of my friends this month. May I have your number? I may need a wise word again, not just a ride.”
John smiled, handed her a card. “I’ll be glad to help. And please, don’t keep your daughter waiting.”
She nodded, stepped out, and waved from the entrance. John gave a brief nod in return.
The rest of the day passed peacefully. After Eleanor, he ferried a silent businessman to the airport, a young couple
