The Bus Stops Here: You Only Die Once

A tall, heavyset man stood alone, watching his son climb a brick wall to chase after my son, Lane, who had already been walking up and down the three-foot retaining wall, pretending to balance like he was on a tightrope high in the air.

Lane and I had just trekked the last mile to school after a 25-minute bus ride from our house. The man and I were the only parents waiting outside the gate. I wasn’t feeling especially talkative—social anxiety, the usual—but I felt like I should say something. It was the start of a new school year, and I regretted not getting to know more parents when the twins were in kindergarten. It had gotten harder over time. The other parents grew more familiar with each other, and I felt more like an outsider.

I hesitated, weighing whether to start a conversation. His hair was slicked to his head with sweat beneath a worn baseball cap, and he looked like he could really use a haircut. At least 6'3", he wore a shirt that had to be a triple XL, stretched over a round belly. He was a big man, but evenly built.

“What’s your son’s name?” I asked.

“Ethan,” he said quietly. He was polite, answering softly. We chatted as we watched the boys play, and after a few minutes, I offered, “I’m Liz.”

“Brian,” he volunteered.

“Is Ethan your first? Or do you have other kids?”

“I have an eight-year-old and a nine-year-old,” he said.

We kept talking—about school, the kids, the chaos of mornings. I mentioned how lucky I’d been to have a mother-in-law who worked with my kids so they were more than ready for kindergarten.

“My wife worked with them a little bit,” he said. “I didn’t do much.”

“Oh, does your wife stay home with the kids?” I asked.

He pressed his lips together and gave the slightest shake of his head. “No. Not anymore.”

There was a pause. He looked down for a second. “She died. She’s not here anymore.”

I felt the floor shift a little under me. I tried to stay steady, even in moments like this. “How did she die?” I asked gently.

“She overdosed in June,” Brian said. He let out a long breath, like he was finally saying it out loud.

I was stunned. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” was all I could manage.

“Yeah…” he nodded slowly, almost like he was agreeing with me, or with himself, or with no one at all.

“How’s Ethan handling it? He’s so young.”

Brian’s face tightened, and his eyes glossed over. I thought maybe he was going to cry. Then he let out another big breath.

“They’re actually doing pretty well,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not doing so good though.”

There it was. The break in the dam.

I tried to steer us out of the heavy silence. “Do you have help? Anyone supporting you with the kids?”

“No one,” he said. Still in the storm. And I got it. In Vegas, so many of us live without ties, floating just above survival.

“That must be really hard,” I said. I hesitated, then added, “Look, I work from home… and if you ever need someone to watch the kids—” I trailed off. I didn’t even have a car. I lived in a studio apartment. What could I really offer?

But then I remembered how I was raised. My parents always said, share what you have. Don’t leave until the work is done. Maybe this wasn’t exactly that kind of moment—but I knew what my dad would have done.

So I straightened up and said it again, more firmly. “No, really. If you ever need help, I’d be happy to. I can only imagine how hard it is.”

He nodded, lips tight again. More parents began to gather as the gate opened. We called to our boys, gave them hugs, and watched them disappear into the schoolyard. Kindergarten goodbyes.

I started to rush for the bus but stopped and turned back. “I wish I could say something,” I said. “‘Good luck,’ or ‘Hang in there’—but really, there aren’t any words that make it better, are there?”

Brian looked at me, softer this time. “No,” he said. And for the first time, I saw empathy in his eyes—for me.

“Well,” I said, “don’t be a stranger. And have as good a day as you possibly can.”

He smiled politely and whispered, “Thank you.”

As I walked toward the bus stop, I thought, I’m so glad I have my trials, and not someone else’s. I looked at the people passing by and wondered—what are they carrying? What hurts in their world today?

Everyone is hiding something behind their smile.

We should all be a little kinder.

__________________________

The Bus Stops Here series started because for a time I did not have a car and would take public transportation. I had the opportunity to have rare glimpses into random lives of every day people. I feel like taking a moment to understand someone else's life helps me to closely examine my own. Every person has a story, a lesson, a legacy. Though I don't always meet people at the bus stop anymore, I do still find the lives of every day people fascinating and love to share their stories.