My name is Sheila, and at 56, I drive for a rideshare app, a necessity since my husband Paul’s hardware store folded during the pandemic. We lost our business, half our savings, and nearly the house twice, but I still had my car and my license, so I figured, why not? It’s honest, if not glamorous. Most nights, the passengers are polite—tired commuters or kind folks—but last Friday, the universe threw me two entitled monsters who looked like they’d stepped off a magazine cover. I was downtown, just past 9:00 p.m., when the couple climbed into the backseat. They didn’t offer a greeting, merely hopped in, acting as if sitting in my car was doing me a tremendous personal favor I should be grateful for, setting an ugly tone immediately.
The guy, with his slicked-back hair and fitted blazer, barely glanced at me before scoffing loud enough to carry through the car. “Seriously? This is the premium ride?” I kept my smile in place, focused on professionalism, and asked them to buckle up. That’s when the smirk appeared—slow, oily, confirming he’d decided I was beneath him. They laughed, not kindly, and then the insults started. “Bet she drives slow so she doesn’t spill her prune juice,” he sneered. My jaw clenched tight; I’ve heard worse, but the way they leaned into it, like it was a hilarious game, was infuriating. Then the girl added, “Oh my God, she has a crocheted seat cover! My grandma had one of these too. No offense.”
The “no offense” was the worst part; a cloak for genuine nastiness. I told myself to breathe and hold steady for ten minutes until the ride was over. But then the guy leaned forward, speaking to me like a servant, demanding I avoid the highway because his girlfriend “gets carsick.” When I politely agreed, he let out a long, exasperated sigh. “God, people will do anything for five stars these days,” he muttered, catching my eye in the rearview mirror and smirking again. That’s when the irritation turned sharp. They wanted me to feel small, inferior, and worthless. “WHAT?” he snapped when I didn’t look away. “Don’t give me that look. I don’t feel bad for you. People like you CHOOSE this life.” The cruelty of that sentence hung heavy in the air.
We were barely four blocks from their destination when red and blue lights flashed behind us. My heart sank, anticipating a ticket on top of this awful night. The couple shifted irritably. “Now what?!” the man complained. “Does this woman even know how to drive?” I pulled over, hands trembling, and the officer approached the window wearing a surgical mask. He leaned in slightly, his eyes calm as he scanned the interior. “Evening, folks. Everything alright here, ma’am?” Before I could answer, the guy jumped in, dripping sarcasm: “Yeah, officer, we’re peachy. Maybe tell Grandma here the speed limit isn’t a suggestion.” The girl squealed with amusement at his joke, and I wanted to disappear entirely into the seat.
The officer’s demeanor instantly hardened. He ignored the passengers and focused on me, confirming I was the driver. As I fumbled for my documents, the guy rolled his eyes and mumbled, loud enough for the officer to hear, “Lucky us, huh? Maybe she’ll pass out tissues when she retires.” The officer’s jaw tightened, and he took a distinct step closer to the car. “Mind if I ask you two a few questions?” he asked the passengers, his voice now firm. The man tried to push back, but the officer cut him off. “I’d suggest you keep your tone down, especially considering you’re mocking someone’s mother.” My hands froze on the wheel. He paused, then slowly pulled the mask down. “Mom?” he said quietly. It was my son, Eli.
Eli’s face, usually gentle, was now locked with the sternness of the badge. He warned the couple, his eyes cold, “You two better stay silent the rest of this ride. If I hear one more word, I’ll pull you out of this car.” The silence that followed was instant and absolute, heavier than any noise. Eli leaned close to me and whispered, “Call me when you drop them off. I’ll stay nearby.” The rest of the ride was quieter than a church, with the two strangers sitting perfectly still. When I dropped them off, they practically bolted, offering no thanks. I called Eli, my voice cracking, realizing that for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like someone’s punchline. I felt like someone’s mom, and that, I realized, was enough. I went home to Paul, and leaning against his familiar shoulder, I finally felt completely safe and good.
