I became a private driver for a wealthy widow because I needed money — after she accused me of stealing, I found a hidden note from her in the car and was left stunned.
When you have 3 kids and two overdue bills on the kitchen table, pride becomes a privilege.
That was why I took the job driving Mrs. Whitmore.
She was a wealthy widow in her seventies, the kind of woman who lived behind iron gates and wore pearls to breakfast. I expected her to be distant, but she wasn’t.
At first, I only drove her to appointments, charity lunches, and the cemetery every Friday, where she placed white roses on her husband’s grave.
Then she started asking me questions.
“”How old are your children, Stan?””
“”Do they look like you?””
“”Do they know how hard you work?””
Sometimes, after I drove her home, she invited me in for coffee. I always sat near the edge of the chair, careful not to seem too comfortable. She talked about her late husband, her empty house, and her 4 grown kids who visited only when they needed something signed.
I felt sorry for her.
Maybe that was my mistake.
Last Tuesday, her children were at the house when I arrived. Mrs. Whitmore stood in the living room, pale and shaking.
“”My diamond brooch is missing,”” she said.
Then she looked straight at me.
“”I think Stan took it.””
The room went silent.
Her son smirked. Her daughter folded her arms. I felt my face burn.
“”Mrs. Whitmore, I would never—””
“”Enough,”” she snapped. “”Take the car to my mechanic and leave it there. The papers are in the glove compartment. He knows what to do. And once you hand him the keys, you’re done working for me.””
I wanted to throw the keys on her marble floor and walk out.
But I needed that week’s pay.
So I drove her black Mercedes across town, angry and humiliated. At the garage, I opened the glove compartment to get the documents.
A folded note drifted out and fell onto the passenger seat.
My name was written on it.
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