Member-only story
Of Lyft Drivers and Landing Pads
Our Lyft driver was a Chicago Dad. Or, more accurately, a Chicago suburbs dad, complete with Cubs jacket, Chicago accent, and stories about his older son’s batting coach.
It was the saddest Lyft ride we’d had in a while.
Chicago Dad also had an ex-wife, and a small apartment where his sons stayed with him every other weekend and on Wednesday nights. He loved music, even payed air drum solos at stop lights, but never quite got the time to learn to play an instrument. His two sons both played, then abandoned the euphonium. His eyes lit up when he talked about his boys, about how even though they weren’t in the same house, he got to hug and kiss them every day at their baseball games and practices. His eyes lit up with love, and with held-back tears. His face shined the way the sun shoots out light just before day slips into darkness.
I felt such a tenderness for Chicago Dad. Something caught deep in my throat so I knew I couldn’t talk without starting to sob. I let my husband carry the conversation, and he did with ease and grace.
As Chicago Dad talked, I imagined his sons. I imagined them going to his house every other weekend and Wednesday nights, switching from one home to another. Adjusting themselves to fit the space. And I felt anxious for Chicago Dad — because I wondered what happens when all of this ends…