A pediatrician takes pride in her Afghan cabdriver father – latimes.com.
In the morning, before my father and I go our separate ways to work, we chat amiably. “Good luck on your day.” “Hope business is good.” And our one response to everything: “Inshallah.” God willing.
I get into my mini-SUV and head off to the hospital, groaning about the lack of sleep, the lack of time, but also knowing that I am driving off to what has always been my dream.
My father gets into his blue taxi, picks up his radio and tells the dispatcher he’s ready. Then he waits. He waits for someone wanting to go somewhere. He waits to go home to my mother, the woman he calls “the boss.” Maybe today will be a good day. He will call her up and tell her he is taking her out tonight. He can do that now that we’re all grown up; now that he doesn’t have to save every dime for the “what-ifs” and the “just-in-cases.”
(h/t Susan Carland, who really needs to get a blog of her own.)