Since my husband’s hardware store closed during the pandemic, I’ve been doing rideshare full-time. We lost the business, burned through half our savings, and almost lost the house twice. But I still had my car and a clean driving record, so I figured I’d make it work.
It’s not glamorous work. Most nights I get tired commuters, drunk college students, or the occasional professionals who tip well. Sometimes I get a single mom heading to her second shift, and we’ll talk about our kids. Those rides remind me why I keep doing this. Connection, even brief, matters.
But last Friday, I picked up two people who seemed determined to make me feel worthless.
It was just after 9:00 p.m. downtown when they climbed into my back seat. The guy had slicked-back hair and wore a fitted blazer that probably cost more than my car payment. His girlfriend was tall and polished, wearing perfume I couldn’t have afforded even when we owned the store.
They didn’t say hello. Didn’t acknowledge me at all. Just got in like I was part of the car’s upholstery.
I tried anyway. “Evening, folks. Heading to Broadway?”
Nothing. Not even a nod.
The guy barely looked at me before scoffing loud enough for half the block to hear. “Seriously? This is supposed to be premium?”
I kept my professional smile in place. “Please buckle up.”
He smirked at his girlfriend, that slow, deliberate kind of smile people use when they’ve decided you’re beneath them.
They started laughing. Not friendly laughter. It was the pointed kind meant to cut. The girl leaned over and whispered something, and he snorted like she’d just made the joke of the century.
“Bet she drives slow so she doesn’t spill her prune juice,” he said.
My hands tightened on the wheel. I’ve heard worse over the years, but something about the way he said it felt calculated. Like they were just warming up.
“Oh my God,” the girl added, touching my seat cover. “She has a crocheted seat cover. My grandma had one exactly like this. No offense.”
There it was. “No offense.” The universal disclaimer people use right after saying something offensive… like it magically erases the insult.
I told myself to breathe. “Ten minutes. Just get through 10 minutes and drop them off without incident, Sheila.”
Then the guy leaned forward. “Can you avoid the highway? My girlfriend gets carsick.”
I wanted to say something sharp, but swallowed it. “Of course. No problem.”
He sighed dramatically. “God, people will do anything for five stars these days.”
I caught his eyes in the rearview mirror. He was smirking. I held his gaze for a second longer than usual, and something in me refused to look away first.
His expression changed. “WHAT? Don’t give me that look. I don’t feel bad for you. People like YOU choose this life!”
That sentence landed differently than the others. It wasn’t just rude. It was deliberately cruel. Like he’d been waiting to say it. And it gave him some kind of satisfaction.
“People like me,” I said quietly. “Right.”
He didn’t even blink.
The girl giggled. “Maybe you should’ve made better choices.”
I gripped the wheel tightly and focused on the road. Better choices. As if I’d chosen for the pandemic to destroy our business or decided working nights to keep the lights on sounded fun.
We were about four blocks from their destination when red and blue lights flashed in my rearview mirror.
My stomach dropped. A speeding ticket was the last thing I needed on top of this miserable ride.
The girl sighed like the police lights had personally inconvenienced her evening. The guy muttered something I couldn’t quite hear, probably another comment about my driving.
I pulled over carefully, heart pounding. The cruiser stopped behind me. The couple in the backseat shifted, looking mildly annoyed.
“Now what?” the guy hissed. “Does this woman even know how to drive?”
The officer got out and approached my window. He was wearing a pale-blue surgical mask.
“Getting over the flu,” he said as he leaned down slightly, his eyes scanning the car. “Evening. Is everything alright here?”
His voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Before I could respond, the guy in the backseat spoke up.
“Yeah, officer, we’re fine. Just trying to get to the club. Maybe tell Grandma here that the speed limit isn’t optional.”
He laughed at his own joke. The girl giggled like it was the funniest thing she’d heard all night. The sound hit me right in the chest. I wanted to disappear into the seat.
The officer didn’t react. Not even a hint of amusement. He looked at me again. “Ma’am, you’re the driver?”
I nodded, trying to keep my voice steady. “Yes, sir. I’m working. Just taking these two to Broadway. My license and registration are current.”
“I’ve been driving fine, officer,” I heard myself add, though my voice wavered slightly.
The guy rolled his eyes and leaned toward the girl, his voice loud enough to carry. “Lucky us. Maybe she’ll hand out tissues when she retires.”
That one hurt more than I wanted to admit.
The officer’s posture changed as he took a step closer to the car. “Mind if I ask you two some questions?”
The girl sat up straighter. “Like what?”
“Have you been drinking?”
The guy shrugged, looking almost bored. “Couples drink. So what?”
“I’d suggest keeping your tone respectful,” the officer said, still calm but firmer now. “The way you’re acting comes pretty close to harassment.”
The guy blinked, momentarily caught off-guard. “Are you serious right now?”
“Especially,” the officer continued, eyes narrowing, “considering you’re mocking someone’s mother.”
The words hung in the air. Everything went still. My hands froze on the steering wheel. I turned slowly to look up at him, and he met my eyes. Then he pulled down his mask.
“Mom?” he said quietly.
My breath caught. It was Eli. My son.
I hadn’t known he was working in this area tonight. He’d been asking me for months to stop driving nights, telling me he and his wife could help with bills. But I’d never wanted to be a burden to my kid.
He saw my expression and touched the doorframe gently. Then his face changed. The warmth disappeared, replaced by something harder.
It was the same face that used to light up after Little League games. The same one that cried when he didn’t make varsity. Now, behind the badge, his jaw was set in a way I’d never seen before.
Eli turned to the couple, his voice cold. “You two stay silent the rest of this ride. If I hear one more word, I’ll pull you out of this car, and it won’t end well for you.”
The guy’s face had gone pale. “Wait, she’s actually your…”
“I said silent,” Eli cut him off.
The guy opened his mouth, then closed it. His girlfriend just stared. The expensive perfume that had filled the car earlier now felt suffocating.
Eli leaned closer to me. “Call me when you drop them off. I’ll be nearby.”
I nodded, throat tight. But for the first time that night, I didn’t feel alone.
The rest of the ride was silent. Complete, uncomfortable silence.
The guy sat perfectly still, like he’d forgotten how to move. The girl stared out the window with her lips pressed together. No more whispered jokes. No more laughter.
In my rearview mirror, they looked like different people. Not the smug pair who’d climbed in acting like they owned the world. Just two people who’d finally been checked.
Every red light felt longer. And every turn seemed louder. My heartbeat had slowed, but there was still a tightness in my chest that wouldn’t let go.
When I pulled up to the club, they practically jumped out. No “thank you,” no “have a good night.” The guy pulled out his phone and added a tip that felt more like guilt money than genuine appreciation.
I didn’t care about the money. It had never been about the money.
As they walked away, the girl glanced back once. She didn’t look smug anymore. Just embarrassed, maybe. Or maybe just realizing they weren’t as untouchable as they’d thought.
Good.
I sat there for a moment, just breathing. My hands were still trembling slightly.
It’s strange how someone can say a dozen cruel things, but it’s always the last one that sticks. That ride could’ve broken something in me. But it didn’t. Not this time.
I picked up my phone and called Eli.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” I said. My voice cracked even though I was trying to hold it together.
“Mom,” he sighed, “you know I can’t actually arrest someone just for being a jerk, right?”
“I know,” I said. “But maybe they’ll think twice next time.”
There was a pause. Just a breath, but it felt meaningful.
“You okay?” he asked.
I looked at the empty backseat. My eyes landed on the crocheted seat cover that used to be in my husband’s truck, back when we thought we had everything figured out.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m good. For the first time in a while, I’m actually good.”
And I meant it.
I didn’t feel like someone’s punchline anymore. I felt like someone’s mom. And that was enough.
“You sure you don’t want me to come over?” Eli asked.
“I’m sure, honey. Go home to your wife. I’ll see you Sunday for dinner.”
He hesitated. “Okay. But Mom? Please think about what I said. About cutting back on the night shifts.”
“I will,” I promised, and this time I meant it.
Later that night, my husband, Paul, was still awake watching an old western when I got home. He had his usual blanket draped across his lap and was holding a mug of decaf he’d probably reheated three times without finishing.
“Rough shift?” he asked, reaching for the remote.
I dropped onto the couch next to him and pulled off my shoes. My feet were killing me, and my back felt like someone had twisted it sideways. But I laughed softly.
“You could say that.”
He looked over at me. “You okay?”
I leaned my head against his shoulder, the same shoulder that’s carried so much weight without ever complaining. “You know what? I think I actually am.”
He muted the TV. “What happened?”
“Eli pulled me over tonight.”
Paul’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”
“I had these awful passengers. They were mocking me the whole ride. Then Eli pulled us over for a traffic stop and realized it was me.” I smiled despite myself. “You should’ve seen their faces when he took off his mask.”
Paul chuckled, shaking his head. “That boy always had good timing.”
“He told them they were harassing his mother. They didn’t say another word the rest of the ride.”
Paul smiled and kissed the top of my head the way he’s done a thousand times before. Never rushed, never needing thanks.
“That’s my girl.”
We sat there for a moment. No TV. No conversation. Just the kind of silence that feels full instead of empty.
Maybe I won’t do this forever. Someday I’ll stop driving strangers around and spend my evenings baking or doing puzzles with Paul. Maybe I’ll let my knees rest and let someone else carry the weight for once.
It’s been a week since that night. Tonight, sitting in my car, the same old Corolla I cried in after we lost the store, I don’t feel small anymore. I feel seen. And sometimes that’s all any of us really need.
