The bus driver told an 80-year-old woman to get off because she hadnt paid for her fare. She only said a few words in 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 almost empty. Outside, a light drizzle fell, and the grey evening settled over London. She didnt speak, just held her old shopping bag tighterthe kind youd take to the market.
“I said off! This isnt a care home!” he raised his voice.
The bus went still. A few passengers looked away, pretending not to see. A young woman by the window chewed her lip. A bloke in a trench coat scowled but stayed in his seat.
The old lady shuffled toward the exit, each step slow and heavy. The doors wheezed open, and a cold gust hit her face. She paused on the step, her eyes locking onto the driver.
Then she spokesoft but clear:
“I raised men like you once. With love. And now I cant even sit.”
Then she stepped down and walked off.
The bus stayed there, doors gaping. The driver turned away, like he couldnt face his own thoughts. From the back, someone sniffled. The girl by the window wiped her cheek. The man in the trench coat stood and headed for the door. One by one, the passengers got off, leaving their tickets behind.
In minutes, the bus was empty. Just the driver sat there, the unspoken *sorry* burning inside him.
Meanwhile, the old woman walked slowly down the wet pavement. Her shape blurred into the evening, but every step carried quiet pride.
Next morning, the driver came to work like usual. Same early shift, same flask of tea, same route list. But something in him was different.
He couldnt shake the unease. Hardly slept, her voice in his head*I raised men like you. With love.*
As he drove, he started watching the faces at the stops, searching. He wanted to find her. To say sorry. To help. Or just to admit hed been a fool.
A week later, near closing time, he spotted hersmall, bent, same bag, same coatwaiting by the old market stop.
He pulled up, flung the doors open, and stepped out.
“Gran” he said quietly. “Im sorry. That day I was wrong.”
She looked up at him. Then she smiled. No bitterness. No blame.
“Life teaches us all, love. You just have to listen. And youyou listened.”
He helped her onto the bus and sat her up front. Halfway through the route, he pulled out his flask and offered her some tea. They rode in silencebut a warm one, easy. Like something had softened in both of them.
After that, he always kept a few spare fares in his pocketfor those who couldnt pay. Especially for the grandmas.
Every morning before his shift, hed think of her words. Not just as guilt, but as a lessonto be decent.
Spring came quick. The rain eased, and soon bunches of daffodils popped up at stopsold ladies selling them, tied with string. He started recognising their faces, nodding, helping them on. Sometimes just a smile, and hed see how much it meant.
But he never saw *that* grandma again.
He looked for her every day. Asked about her. Someone said she mightve lived near the churchyard, past the bridge. On his day off, he went walking thereno uniform, no bus. Just searching.
Then one day, he found ita simple wooden cross with a photo in a little frame. Those same eyes.
He stood there a long while, quiet. The trees rustled overhead, sun slipping through the leaves.
Next morning, a small bunch of daffodils lay on the front seat of his bus. Hed picked them himself. Beside them, a handwritten sign:
*”For those we forgetwho never forgot us.”*
Passengers read it in silence. Some smiled. Some left a coin. And the driver just carried onslower now, more careful. Sometimes stopping early so an old lady could catch up.
Because he knew nowevery nan was someones mum. Every smile was a *ta, love.* And sometimes, just a few words can change everything.
