It was my last ride of the night. I sped up. Nothing moving. I wanted to leave, but something about the house made me think twice.
I rang the doorbell. “Just a minute,” a weak voice said. After that, scraping. Someone was pulling something heavy. My fingers got tense.
The door was opened. A tiny woman in her 90s who was dressed from a different time stood there. Behind her, the flat was empty, with sheets over the furniture and a single box of memories in the corner.
It was a soft question: “Would you carry my bag?” I said “yes” and put out my arm. She took it in like she was dancing.
She thought about it at the cab. “May I take the long way?” By way of downtown?”
Though I should have been at home, I couldn’t say no to her because her voice was so sad and almost beseeching.
“That’s not the fastest way,” I said.
She said in a whisper, “Oh, I don’t mind.”
I looked into the mirror and saw her eyes. Her eyes were shiny. It was turned off. “Which way do you want to go?”
We drove for two hours. She talked about old places, like the office where she used to work, the house she shared with her husband, and the hall where she used to dance.
I drove her to the address she gave me as dawn broke. A small, quiet building. Home care.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Nothin’.”
“But you need to earn money.”
“There are more people on board.”
She looked at me and then put her weak arms around me.
She said in a whisper, “You made an old woman happy.” “Thank you.”
I gave her a squeeze and turned away. I heard the door close behind me.
That night, I stopped taking people. But after a month, my phone rang.
When I answered, I thought it might be a friend or the wrong number. “Hello, is this Martin Perez?” came the voice on the other end, which was clear and almost too cool for school. This is Mendez & Park, a law company, calling about Ms. Harriet Thompson. The sound of her name made my stomach turn. Why would a law firm call me?
I said, “Yes, my name is Martin.” “Is she all right?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Thompson died last week,” the caller said in a low voice. “My name is Clara.” We’d like you to come in and talk about something that has to do with her will since we are in charge of her estate.
The phone almost fell off. Harriet was so lively that night. As we drove through the quiet streets, she pointed and smiled. Being without her seemed strange, like I had just spent time with her yesterday. I quickly typed out my answer and wrote down the date and time to meet Clara. The rest of that day, I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.
What an ordinary office it was the next week. It had white walls and a single window that looked out over a parking lot. Clara said hello. I was led to a small meeting room by a pretty woman with curly hair and a friendly face.
She said, “Thank you for coming in.” “Ms. Thompson had nice things to say about you.” There was a cab driver she talked about who was very nice to her, and in her last days, she changed her will.
I blinked because I wasn’t sure what I was hearing. “Because of me, she changed her mind?”
“Technically, she added a codicil,” Clara said, sliding a cream-colored envelope across the table. “It was a small addition saying that she wished to leave you an heirloom and a personal note.” “This is for you.”
I opened the envelope with shaking hands. There was a letter written by hand on thin paper inside. I looked over the words:
Get well, Martin
You might think it’s weird, but I loved our ride so much. You gave me time to think about the places that have had a big impact on my life. That’s why I want you to have my locket with a picture of my late husband in it. It’s not worth much money, but I loved it very much. Because of you, I felt honor and happiness in my last days.
I forced a hard swallow as tears came to my eyes. I blew my nose. “That’s…very kind of her.”
Clara said “yes.” “Ms. Thompson also told you that she would like the locket to be given to the local historical society if you turned it down, but she really wanted you to keep it.”
The door flew open before I could answer. Along with the tall, thin man came a woman who was scowling behind him. The man’s eyes were red with anger. The man spoke quickly and said, “My name is Byron and I’m Ms. Thompson’s grandson.” “Why is this strange person here?” We are reading a will right now.
Clara tried to calm him down, but Byron and the woman who said she was Harriet’s niece wouldn’t listen. They looked at me funny, like I had broken into their house. “We’re going to fight this new part of my grandmother’s will,” Byron yelled. “He’s just a taxi driver.” He has no right to anything she owns.
I carefully put the letter back in its envelope because I was confused. She died, and I didn’t want any of her property. I said it slowly. “Just a note and a locket,” I said.
Byron wouldn’t have it, though. “She was old and lost.” You probably used her for your own gain. In the days after her ride, she talked about you. Everyone said how great you were. She would never give someone she didn’t know family treasures.
My heart was beating fast. I looked at Clara, and she looked just as shocked as I did. The next hour was spent going over Harriet’s last will and testament. I found out that Harriet’s family hadn’t been to see her in a while. Harriet was so old, Byron and his mother said, that she didn’t know what she was doing when she signed the paper.
At the end of that meeting, I knew they were serious about going to court against me. It was strange, like I was in a nightmare I couldn’t get out of. To respect Harriet’s last wish, I only wanted to accept a small gift from a woman who had been nice to me. Now, though, I was stuck in court.
In the weeks that followed, I got court summonses, calls, and a lot of questions from lawyers. Lena, another friend who drove cabs, gave me support. She told him over coffee one night, “I can’t believe they’re doing this to you.” “Just for a locket?”
I shrugged, feeling tired. “I guess they think there’s more to it than that.” Byron is sure that Harriet had money hidden in that ring or something. I really didn’t know how valuable it could be. Harriet wrote in her letter that it was worth more in memories than in money. That was all I knew.
Byron’s lawyer said at the preliminary hearing that Harriet had been tricked by a “complete stranger.” They said I was friends with her only to get a share of her wealth. They turned our friendly, innocent meeting into something shady, which made my stomach turn. To keep my voice steady, I stood up and told the story of that night: the quiet ride, Harriet’s stories, and how she lit up when she talked about her childhood. I told her that I had turned off the meter and that Harriet had never mentioned giving me anything until Clara called me a few weeks later.
Clara and a social worker from the hospice both agreed with me. They also said Harriet was mentally and physically sound when she changed her will. She said that Harriet was thankful for “the young cab driver who took her on a last tour of beloved places.” The judge paid close attention and nodded a few times.
I thought the day would never end until the judge called a short break and came back with a decision: Harriet’s codicil was valid. She was perfectly fine giving me the locket. Byron’s case against me was thrown out.
I felt such a strong sense of relief that my knees almost gave out. Clara gave me a comforting squeeze on the shoulder. Byron and his mother stormed out, clearly angry that they hadn’t gotten anything good out of Harriet’s will or an extra share of her money.
With the locket in my hand, I stood outside the building in the cool fall air. There was a picture of Harriet and her husband on their wedding day inside a simple, worn piece of silver. I looked at their young faces. They looked so happy and in love. I felt a wave of thanks. Harriet’s last wish wasn’t for money. She just wanted to share that part of her story with someone who would care about it and keep her memories living.
I said “thank you” to the sky in a quiet voice. For Harriet. For the lesson she left behind: small acts of kindness can change people’s lives in ways you don’t expect. Even though it was stressful and caused a lot of trouble, I didn’t regret a second of the ride I gave her. What it showed in the end is that doing good can be scary, but it’s also very satisfying.
I put the locket in my pocket and walked to my cab. As I got behind the wheel, I thought about how everything would have been different if I hadn’t left without knocking on her door that night. Still, this experience told me that genuine kindness always leaves a mark, sometimes even on your own future.
You never know how a small act can change someone’s life, or even your own. To feel compassion is to be pushed into the unknown, but it can also push you toward what you want.