After my mom passed away, I walked out of the hospital feeling completely numb. I didn’t have a plan, I didn’t even know where I was going—I just climbed into the first taxi I saw. I barely got the door closed before the tears hit me like a wave. The ugly, unstoppable kind that steals your breath. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even force out an address. I was just shaking and sobbing in the back seat.
The driver glanced in the mirror, and instead of asking questions or telling me to hurry up, he pulled over right away. Then he reached forward, turned off the meter, and said softly, “We’re not going anywhere until your body catches up with your heart.”
No pressure. No awkward pity. Just calm.
He stepped out, walked to a nearby cart, and came back with hot tea. He placed it carefully into my trembling hands like it was the most normal thing in the world. Then he sat in the front seat facing forward, giving me space to fall apart without feeling stared at. He didn’t talk over me. He didn’t try to fix it. He just… stayed.
When I finally managed to choke out an apology, he shook his head and said, “You’re not broken. You’re grieving. There’s a difference.”
We started driving again, and for a while I just stared out the window, exhausted. A few minutes later, I noticed we weren’t going the route I expected. My stomach tightened—until he slowed down and pulled up in front of a tiny flower shop tucked between two closed storefronts.
He got out without explanation, spoke briefly to the florist, and returned holding a small bouquet of white flowers. He handed them to me and said, “No one should go home empty-handed on a day like today.”
I didn’t know his name. He didn’t know mine. But in that moment, his kindness felt like something solid to hold onto—like a hand reaching out in the dark, catching me right before I hit the ground.
