Dear Diary,
I spent today behind the wheel of my black cab, navigating the endless rush hour on Oxford Street. An elderly lady in a neat charcoal suit was tapping impatiently on the leather of her handbag.
“Don’t you see? We should be moving on the green, not idling!” she snapped.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, there’s a car parked ahead. I can’t just plough through,” I replied calmly, eyes on the road.
“It’s vital I get to my daughter’s appointment! Find another route!” she insisted.
“Look, it’s a traffic jam. Let’s just be patient,” I said, glancing at the rear‑view mirror.
She sighed heavily, leaning back. “Heavens, what a nightmare. Everything goes wrong. First the argument, now I’m late…”.
I watched her through the mirror: a plump woman in her sixties, hair neatly trimmed, her lower lip trembling as she fidgeted with the clasp of her bag. I felt a sudden urge to speak.
“Sometimes the most important meetings are delayed for a reason. Fate seems to give us a moment to collect our thoughts,” I said, surprising even myself.
She turned her head toward me. “Is that… you?”
“Yes. You mentioned the argument. Perhaps this jam is a chance to think about what you’ll say to your daughter?” My voice was steady, low.
“Excuse me, I didn’t ask for advice,” she snapped, then exhaled again. “Fine… I did argue with my daughter. She wants to move abroad, thinks there’s no future here. And I… I’ll be left alone.”
“My name’s James Whitaker,” I introduced myself. “My passengers often share their stories. Maybe it will lighten your load.”
She introduced herself as Evelyn Harper. “It’s a silly story… My daughter believes life will be better in Canada. What Canada? What has she forgotten? And here I am, knitting caps for my grandchildren that they’ll never wear.”
I halted at a red light, buying a moment to think. “My son left for Canada ten years ago. I was against it at first.”
“How did you cope?” she asked, genuine curiosity softening her tone.
“At first I was angry, refused his calls. Then I realised I was wasting precious time. Holding a grudge is like carrying a stone in your pocket—you only hurt yourself,” I replied, feeling the car creep forward as the light turned green.
She let out a sigh. “Easier said than done. Does he still call?”
“Quite often. We video‑chat weekly. I see my grandchildren regularly; they call me Granddad Jim. I even flew to Canada last year—my first trip abroad.”
“Weren’t you scared, being alone in a foreign land?”
“Terrified, of course. But seeing my son’s happy face and the kids’ bright eyes made the fear vanish. The world isn’t as big as it seems; distance lives more in our heads than on a map.”
Evelyn 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 ask her why, without blame?” I nudged the steering wheel around a pothole. “I became a cab driver after retiring from the factory where I spent thirty years as an engineer. In all my years, I’ve learned people need to be heard, not judged.”
“Do you really help them that much?” she asked, a hint of irony in her voice.
“I’m not sure. But many leave calmer than they entered. Just last month I ferried a nervous student who’d forgotten the engagement ring. We retrieved it, he called me later to say she said yes.”
She smiled despite herself. “You have a fascinating job, James.”
“People are fascinating,” I corrected. “We’ve only known each other fifteen minutes, yet I can see you’re a loving mother terrified of being alone.”
“You say that so easily…” she murmured, pulling a silk scarf from her bag.
“It’s natural to fear solitude, but even more natural to wish happiness for our children, even if it doesn’t fit our expectations,” I said gently.
Tears welled in her eyes. “How did you know my son was truly better off in Canada?”
“I didn’t ‘know’; I simply accepted his choice. When I stopped pulling him back, our bond grew. Now we share everything. That never happened before.”
We arrived at a traffic light near a leafy suburb, the spring blossoms painting the road white. I turned to her.
“Evelyn, forgive my bluntness, but it sounds like you’re trying to convince your daughter to stay, not reconcile with her. Am I right?”
She lowered her gaze. “Probably. I’ve rehearsed speeches about family traditions, about how children shouldn’t abandon their parents…”
“What if today you just listen? Ask why Canada? What draws her there? Maybe she fell in love, landed a dream job, or simply needs a change,” I suggested as the light turned green.
“There’s a friend she has there,” she admitted reluctantly. “She says the conditions for her design career are perfect.”
“Exactly! And what do you know about Canada?” I asked.
“Not much—hockey, maple syrup, snow,” she shrugged.
“Then perhaps you could explore it together. Show her you respect her decision. Maybe even promise a visit?”
She hesitated. “I’m terrified of flying. I’ve never left the country.”
“I was too, until I was sixty‑two. I finally thought, ‘What’s there to fear? Life’s only once.’ The worst part is imagining the fear; once you’re airborne, it’s manageable,” I said, smiling.
She watched the houses and trees blur past, the apple trees in full bloom lining the street.
“What if she never comes back?” she whispered.
“What if she does? Or what if you end up visiting her? Life is full of surprises when we stay open,” I replied.
“You’re remarkable, James. A philosopher behind the wheel.”
“Just a man who’s made many mistakes and learned that clinging to anger only wastes time. My wife died of cancer five years ago; we never got to finish our plans. That’s why I tell people not to waste moments on grudges but on love.”
The cab slipped onto a quiet lane shaded by oak trees. “We’re almost there. May I offer one last piece of advice?”
“Please,” she said.
“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 tea room with climbing vines. “We’ve arrived,” I announced.
She fumbled for her wallet, paid, and lingered at the door. “James, you’ve helped me more than all my friends this month. May I have your number? I might need more than a taxi someday.”
I handed her a card. “Happy to help. And don’t keep your daughter waiting.”
She stepped out, turned, and waved. I returned the gesture with a nod.
The rest of the day was a blur of passengers: a silent businessman to the airport, a young couple laden with building supplies, a noisy teenage crew heading to the mall. As evening fell, a new request came from the Magnolia Shopping Centre.
When I arrived, a nervous woman paced by the curb. She reminded me of Evelyn—same chestnut eyes, same habit of twisting her handbag.
“Good evening,” I greeted. “Where to?”
“Linden Street, 57, please,” she replied, eyes glued to her phone.
After a few minutes of quiet, she spoke, “Do you happen to know a good family solicitor?”
I shook my head. “I don’t, but what’s the story?”
She sighed. “I’m filing for divorce after twenty years. His endless business trips have left me feeling alone.”
“Twenty years is a long time,” I mused. “Have you tried talking?”
“Hundreds of times. He only thinks about work. I’m not a person to him. I’ve gathered the papers; tomorrow I’ll file.”
I paused, then asked, “Do you remember how you met?”
She blinked
