That morning’s cold felt unforgiving, the kind that cuts straight through coats and settles deep in your joints. After more than fifteen years as a school bus driver, I’ve learned that winter tests everyone involved—students, parents, and staff alike. I unlocked the depot gate before dawn, climbed into the familiar bus, and waited for the engine to warm as the heater struggled against the icy air. I expected a routine day. Instead, it became one I’ll never forget.
The route started normally. Children climbed aboard wrapped in bulky jackets and scarves, boots thudding on the steps, voices filling the aisle. I greeted them like I always did, trading jokes, waving to parents, and teasing little Marcy about her bright pink pigtails. Those brief moments mattered to me more than the paycheck. They were reminders that school transportation is about more than schedules—it’s about care.
After the morning drop-off, I completed my usual safety check. I walked the aisle, scanning for forgotten gloves, lunch bags, or backpacks. That’s when I heard it—a quiet sob near the back of the bus. It wasn’t loud, but it was unmistakable. I followed the sound and found a small boy curled by the window, his coat pulled tight, eyes locked on the floor. He said he was cold. When I gently asked to see his hands, he hesitated before slowly holding them out.
His fingers were blue, swollen, and stiff. This wasn’t just discomfort—it was prolonged exposure to the cold. Without thinking, I removed my own gloves and slipped them onto his hands. They were far too big, but warmth mattered more than size. He explained softly that his gloves had torn and his parents would replace them next month. He said his dad was “doing his best.” I recognized that phrase immediately. I’d lived it myself.
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