"My name’s Rebecca. I’m 75.

This is a beautiful Story ! Enjoy ! "My name’s Rebecca. I’m 75. I used to drive the school bus for 32 years. Not glamorous work, but honest. I knew every kid by name. Every backpack. Every “Good morning, Miss Rebecca!” with sleepy eyes and peanut butter breath. When I retired, I missed the rhythm of it. The early light. The radio hum. The feeling that I was getting someone where they needed to go. But mostly? I missed them. The kids. So now, every school day at 7:45 a.m., I walk to the corner stop on Elm and Third. Not to ride. To pay. I stand there, coat buttoned, scarf tight, and when the yellow bus pulls up and a child steps on without swiping or handing over cash, maybe because their card failed, maybe because they forgot it, maybe because home is tight this week, I step forward. “I’ve got it,” I say. And I tap my own pass. Just once. For one child. Then I step back. Wave as the bus drives off. That’s all. I don’t hand out candy. I don’t give speeches. I don’t want thanks. I just make sure no kid stands there, embarrassed, while other children file past. It started last winter. A boy, sixth grade, maybe fumbled in his pockets. Looked down. Whispered, “Forgot it.” The driver waited. Other kids stared. He turned red. Something in me remembered how shame feels heavier than snow. So I tapped in. For him. He said, “Thank you, Grandma.” And ran to the back. Next day, same time, same stop, another kid short. So I did it again. And again. And again. Now, after ten months, the drivers know me. They nod. Some smile. One wrote on a napkin “You’ve covered 417 rides. We’re counting.” I didn’t know that. I never kept track. But others have. A single mom came up to me last week. “You paid for my daughter three times,” she said. Her voice cracked. “We were between jobs. She didn’t tell me. Didn’t want to worry me.” She handed me a jar of homemade blackberry jam. “From our last bush,” she said. “Next year, I’ll pay for someone too.” Then the bus company heard. Not angry. Touched. They gave me a lifetime pass. I told them “Keep it. Give it to a student who needs it.” They did. Now, every month, they quietly retire one child’s debt, picked at random. And the note on the envelope says “Paid by someone who believes in you.” But here’s what gets me. Last Friday, I saw a teenager, hoodie up, hands deep in pockets follow a little girl onto the bus. She didn’t have her card. Before I could move... He tapped his phone. “I got her.” And when he passed me, he smiled. “Used to ride your bus, Miss Rebecca. You taught me more than roads.” I didn’t cry until I got home. People ask, “Why do you do it?” Because dignity is thin sometimes. Because a child shouldn’t start the day feeling like a burden. Because someone once gave me a chance when I had nothing. Because kindness isn’t about changing the world. It’s about changing one ride. And maybe, just maybe that changes everything after.” *Let this story reach more hearts.* *Keep doing good things without expecting anything and the Universe will surly provide for you*