Some days, being a bus driver feels like you’re at the centre of a world where ordinary routines can suddenly shift into moments of quiet alarm. People board with their concerns, their errands, and sometimes their emergencies.
One such moment played out before me not too long ago.
A man boarded the bus with his toddler in tow, his expression tense but composed. He chose a seat at the front of the bus and immediately made a phone call. His voice, though controlled, carried a gravity that caught my attention. “Yes, love,” he began, “She’s fine for now. The doctor said it should pass naturally.”
It became clear from his measured words that his child had swallowed a coin.
The toddler sat quietly, seemingly unaffected, but the weight of what had happened was evident in her father’s tone.
The man continued, his voice rising just enough to make sure it carried, as if he didn’t mind who overheard. “I told her not to put things in her mouth,” he said with a sigh. “It was just a moment. She’s always so quick… I didn’t even realise what she’d done until she told me.”
There was no attempt to hush the conversation; if anything, he spoke as if he wanted the people around him to hear, to share in the gravity of the situation. The bus, despite its usual hum of movement and chatter, seemed to hold its breath. A few passengers glanced over, their faces softening in sympathy, but no one said a word. The casual tone of the father’s words somehow gave everyone permission to listen, without feeling like they were intruding.
We’re on our way to A&E now
the father continued, his voice steady but strained. “She doesn’t seem in pain, but I’d rather have them check it out.”
As the bus made its way to their stop, he ended the call with a calm reassurance. “I’ll keep you updated. Don’t worry.” He tucked his phone into his pocket, then gently spoke to his daughter, who looked up at him with innocent eyes, blissfully unaware of the worry surrounding her.
When they disembarked, the father gave me a polite nod. The little girl waved, a picture of childhood energy, completely at odds with the situation. As they walked away, I couldn’t help but reflect on the quiet strength it takes to manage moments like these—to stay calm and focused for the sake of a child, even when worry must weigh heavily.
Driving on, the incident stayed with me. It was a stark reminder of how fragile and unpredictable life can be. Moments like this aren’t about laughter or curiosity; they’re about resilience, the unspoken bond between parent and child, and the hope that all will be well. Being a bus driver gives you a window into these glimpses of humanity, moments that remind you of the shared experiences that connect us all.
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