“I’m doing this for my kids.”

“I’m doing this for my kids.”

I’m not sure her kids appreciate it though, at least not today. They just want dinner on the table and clean clothes for tomorrow. They want to look out into the crowd and see Mom watching, clapping, smiling.

Maybe her boss appreciates it. She said he adjusted her schedule so she could take classes. Until, of course, the guests in room 203 complain that their bed wasn’t made and the extra towels never came. Then he’ll remind her she’s a housekeeper, not a story.

Maybe.

I hope not.

Maybe her professors appreciate it. They probably enjoy having an adult student who actually wants to be there, someone who’s lived a little, unlike the 18-year-olds counting credits. But tests are still tests, and grades don’t bend for effort.

I think I appreciate it. I really do. I think we all do. It’s tempting to relate, to share my own story of struggle, because we all have one.

But unless I write this down, unless I share her story, it disappears.

So for this ride, I pull up to the curb and wait. I find the right playlist and drive as smoothly as possible. I’m a limousine for royalty. 

I listen. 

I encourage.

I want to, but can’t—no, I shouldn’t—offer advice. Not for this ride. Not now. 

What I can offer is something quieter: a pause. A breath. A little rest between the miles of everything she’s carrying.