THE STORY OF THE TRUCK DRIVER TRANSLATED BY ANN WOOD
I put her in the truck because I was feeling sick…but what she was hiding under the seat froze me, but what she was hiding under the seat froze me.I've been driving a truck for years on the roads between Plovdiv, Haskovo and Stara Zagora.
I've driven all sorts of things – cement, timber, fruit, auto parts…
But I've never "driven history" that shook me like this.
The other day I put Grandma Lili in the truck.
I saw her walking along the road – close to the guardrail, slowly, as if every step was heavy for her.
She was wearing a dark coat, worn-out shoes and a small old suitcase tied with string.
— Son… are you heading to the city? — she asked me quietly, in that voice of a Bulgarian mother who has endured more than she has spoken.
— Get in, Grandma. I'll take you.
She sat upright, her hands in her lap.
She was clutching a rosary and looking out the window, without speaking, as if saying goodbye to something.
After a while she said bluntly:
— They kicked me out of the house, son.
No crying.
No shouting.
Just tiredness.
Her daughter-in-law had said it:
“You don’t belong here anymore. You’re in the way.”
The bags were placed by the door.
And her son… her son…
was standing there. Silent. He didn’t protect her.
Can you imagine raising a child alone?
Treating his fever, dividing his bread in half, walking because he didn’t have money for the bus…
And one day, the one you loved the most would look at you like a stranger.
Grandma Lili didn’t argue.
She just put on her coat, grabbed her suitcase, and went out.
We drove in silence.
At one point, she handed me some dry biscuits wrapped in plastic.
— My grandson loved them… when he still came to me — she said quietly.
Then I understood —
I wasn’t carrying a passenger.
I was carrying a mother’s pain, heavier than any burden.
When we stopped to catch our breath, I saw several plastic bags under her seat.
It wouldn’t leave me alone.
— What are you carrying there, grandma?
She hesitated, then opened the suitcase.
Under the folded clothes — money.
Collected over the years.
— My savings, son. Pension, knitting, help from neighbours… everything for the grandchildren.
— And does your son know?
— No. And he shouldn’t.
No malice.
Just sadness.
— Why didn’t you spend it on yourself?
— Because I thought I would grow old with them. And now they don’t even let me see the child. They told him I was “gone.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
My throat tightened.
I told her she couldn't carry money like that.
In Bulgaria, they rob her for less.
I took her to a bank in a nearby town.
Not to buy a house.
But to be safe.
After she deposited the money, she went out and took a deep breath —
as if she had lifted a burden that had been weighing her down for years.
— Where to now? — I asked.
— To a woman in the village. She said she had a room for me. Just temporarily… until she got better.
I left her there.
She wanted to give me money.
I refused.
— You've already given enough, grandma.
— Now just live.
Sometimes life brings us people everyone has forgotten…
to remind us how easy it is to kick out a mother
and how hard it is to sleep with yourself afterwards.
Short story by Ann Wood
Read 4 times
Written on 2025-12-19 at 19:45
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
Increase font
Decrease