**Diary Entry**
The bus driver told an 80-year-old woman to get off because she hadnt paid for her ticket. She barely reacted, just a quiet reply.
“Madam, you havent got a ticket. Youll have to leave,” the driver said sharply, eyeing the frail woman in her worn-out coat, her fingers gripping the rail to steady herself.
The bus was nearly empty. Outside, a light drizzle fell, and the grey evening settled over London. She didnt argue, just tightened her hold on her tattered tote bagthe kind youd carry shopping in.
“Off you get! This isnt a charity!” he raised his voice.
The air in the bus grew heavy. A few passengers looked away, pretending not to notice. A young woman by the window bit her lip. A man in a trench coat frowned but stayed put.
Slowly, the old woman shuffled toward the exit. Each step seemed an effort. The doors hissed open, and a chill wind rushed in. She paused on the step, her eyes locking onto the drivers.
Then she spokesoft, but steady:
“I raised men like you once. With love. And now Im not even allowed to sit.”
With that, she stepped down and walked away.
The bus remained still, doors gaping. The driver turned his head, as if avoiding his own thoughts. Somewhere inside, someone sniffled. The young woman wiped her cheek. The man in the trench coat stood and made for the exit. One by one, the passengers left, their unused tickets abandoned on the seats.
Minutes later, the bus was empty. Only the driver remained, the weight of his unspoken apology pressing hard.
Meanwhile, the old woman trudged down the damp pavement, her silhouette fading into the dusk. Yet with every step, she carried herself with quiet dignity.
The next morning, the driver arrived as usualsame early shift, same flask of tea, same route. But something inside him had shifted.
Restlessness clung to him. Hed tossed all night, haunted by her eyesnot angry, just weary. And those words, looping in his mind: *I raised men like you. With love.*
As he drove, he scanned the faces at every stop, hoping to see her again. Why? To say sorry? To help? Maybe just to admit his shame.
A week passed.
On his last run one evening, he spotted hersmall, bent, that same bagat the stop near the old market. He pulled over, swung the doors open, and stepped out.
“Gran,” he murmured. “Im sorry. That day… I was wrong.”
She lifted her gaze. Thenjust a faint smile. No bitterness. No blame.
“Life teaches us, lad. The trick is to listen. And youyou listened.”
He helped her aboard and guided her to the front seat. Midway through the journey, he offered her a sip from his flask. They rode in silencebut it was a warm, easy quiet, softening something in them both.
After that, he always kept a few extra fares in his pocketfor those who couldnt pay. Especially the older ladies.
Each morning before his shift, hed remember her words. They werent just guilt now; they were a reminderto be kind.
Spring came swiftly. The rain eased, and soon daffodils appeared at the stops, bundled in paper by elderly women selling them. He began recognising them, greeting them, steadying them as they climbed aboard. Sometimes, just a smileand he saw how it mattered.
But he never saw *her* again.
He looked every day. Asked about her. Someone thought she mightve lived near the churchyard, past the High Street. On his days off, hed walk thereno uniform, no busjust searching.
Then, one day, he found it: a simple wooden cross, a photo in a small frame. Those same eyes.
He stood there a long while, listening to the rustle of leaves overhead, the sunlight dappling through.
The next morning, a bunch of daffodils lay on the front seat of his busgathered by him. Beside it, a hand-written sign:
*”For those whove been forgottenbut never forgot us.”*
Passengers read it quietly. Some smiled. Some left a coin. And the driver just carried onslower now, more patient. Sometimes hed wait a little longer, letting an elderly passenger catch up.
Because he understood now: Every grandmother was once someones mother. And sometimes, just a few wordsor a moment of kindnesscan change everything.
