Student_Voice : The taxi driver
Published: 21 Apr. 2026, 00:05
Yoon Junghoon
The author is a student at Hwa Chong International School in Singapore.
As I sank into the back seat of a taxi in Singapore, I gave the driver my school’s name and looked out the window. My mother was still standing by the restaurant where we had met for dinner. She was crying. As the taxi pulled away from the curb, she began to shrink, first to the size of a photograph, then to the size of a fingernail, until I couldn’t see her anymore.
“Your mother?” the driver asked.
Usually, when taxi drivers start talking, I feel a bit annoyed, especially since I’m bad at small talk. And that afternoon, I wanted to be left alone even more than usual so that it was just me and my sadness.
“Yes,” I replied. “She’s going back to Korea.”
Outside the window, the city was the way that it always was: buses lurching forward, traffic lights blinking and people with headphones or grocery bags crossing the street. I was getting used to Singapore.
“You study here alone?” he asked.
I told him that my parents live in Korea, and I came to Singapore this year for high school.
After a pause, he said, “Call her.”
I looked up in confusion. What was he saying? Call my mom?
“Why not?” he said. “Before the distance becomes bigger.”
I hesitated, then took out my phone and called her.
“Is anything wrong?” she asked.
“No. I just wanted to say that I love you and I’ll miss you.”
She laughed a little through her tears and told me to eat properly, sleep properly, study properly — the same things that she had already said over dinner and would probably say again the next time she came. When the call ended, I stared at the screen for a few seconds before putting the phone down.
The driver said, “My daughter also studies abroad.” He added, “In Korea. She goes to Yonsei.”
I laughed softly, almost out of disbelief. “Really?”
“Yes. So maybe I understand your mother better than you think.”
His face in the mirror showed a tired man who’d spent years driving under the Singapore sky, carrying strangers who would step in for a few minutes, then step out and disappear. Plastic stretched across the old seats in a wrinkled layer, worn smooth in some places and cracked in others. It crinkled as I shifted to get a better view of him in the mirror.
“When my daughter first left,” he said, “I thought missing her would only make life harder. But after some time, I came to understand that missing her also gave me strength. I wanted to work harder. I wanted to be useful. I wanted to make her life easier. Love can make you weak for a moment, but it teaches you how to be strong.”
I couldn’t answer right away. In the window, I could see my own reflection over the moving city, my face floating over the roads and buildings. I thought of my mother standing alone after the taxi left. I thought of my father in Korea, who always sounded strong and steady on the phone. I thought of the two of them growing older in increments, too slowly for me to notice until suddenly I’d find a few more gray hairs.
“When parents let their child go far away,” the taxi driver said, “they do it because they believe in the child. You must embody that faith properly.”
For a while, neither of us said anything else. The taxi turned toward the road leading closer to my campus. It felt like the conversation was over.
Then the driver reached forward with one hand, opened a small compartment near the dashboard and searched for something inside. When he found it, he handed it to me.
A one-dollar coin dropped into my palm. I looked at him, confused, and asked what it was.
“A gift.”
“For what?”
“Luck.”
I turned the coin over in my hand. I had never been given anything by a stranger before, certainly not after a conversation like this.
![A one-dollar coin that a student received from a taxi driver [YOON JUNGHOON]](https://koreajoongangdaily.joins.com/data/photo/2026/04/21/291c367b-6434-4537-a305-0dc460115222.jpg)
“Thank you,” I said.
He shrugged, seemingly self-conscious and embarrassed by the emotion in my voice. “Study well,” he said.
The school gates came into view. The taxi slowed and rolled inside. I stepped out and stood there for a moment, watching the taxi disappear between the trees. Then I put the coin in my pocket.
The author is a student at Hwa Chong International School in Singapore.
As I sank into the back seat of a taxi in Singapore, I gave the driver my school’s name and looked out the window. My mother was still standing by the restaurant where we had met for dinner. She was crying. As the taxi pulled away from the curb, she began to shrink, first to the size of a photograph, then to the size of a fingernail, until I couldn’t see her anymore.
“Your mother?” the driver asked.
Usually, when taxi drivers start talking, I feel a bit annoyed, especially since I’m bad at small talk. And that afternoon, I wanted to be left alone even more than usual so that it was just me and my sadness.
“Yes,” I replied. “She’s going back to Korea.”
Outside the window, the city was the way that it always was: buses lurching forward, traffic lights blinking and people with headphones or grocery bags crossing the street. I was getting used to Singapore.
“You study here alone?” he asked.
I told him that my parents live in Korea, and I came to Singapore this year for high school.
After a pause, he said, “Call her.”
I looked up in confusion. What was he saying? Call my mom?
“Why not?” he said. “Before the distance becomes bigger.”
I hesitated, then took out my phone and called her.
“Is anything wrong?” she asked.
“No. I just wanted to say that I love you and I’ll miss you.”
She laughed a little through her tears and told me to eat properly, sleep properly, study properly — the same things that she had already said over dinner and would probably say again the next time she came. When the call ended, I stared at the screen for a few seconds before putting the phone down.
The driver said, “My daughter also studies abroad.” He added, “In Korea. She goes to Yonsei.”
I laughed softly, almost out of disbelief. “Really?”
“Yes. So maybe I understand your mother better than you think.”
His face in the mirror showed a tired man who’d spent years driving under the Singapore sky, carrying strangers who would step in for a few minutes, then step out and disappear. Plastic stretched across the old seats in a wrinkled layer, worn smooth in some places and cracked in others. It crinkled as I shifted to get a better view of him in the mirror.
“When my daughter first left,” he said, “I thought missing her would only make life harder. But after some time, I came to understand that missing her also gave me strength. I wanted to work harder. I wanted to be useful. I wanted to make her life easier. Love can make you weak for a moment, but it teaches you how to be strong.”
I couldn’t answer right away. In the window, I could see my own reflection over the moving city, my face floating over the roads and buildings. I thought of my mother standing alone after the taxi left. I thought of my father in Korea, who always sounded strong and steady on the phone. I thought of the two of them growing older in increments, too slowly for me to notice until suddenly I’d find a few more gray hairs.
“When parents let their child go far away,” the taxi driver said, “they do it because they believe in the child. You must embody that faith properly.”
For a while, neither of us said anything else. The taxi turned toward the road leading closer to my campus. It felt like the conversation was over.
Then the driver reached forward with one hand, opened a small compartment near the dashboard and searched for something inside. When he found it, he handed it to me.
A one-dollar coin dropped into my palm. I looked at him, confused, and asked what it was.
“A gift.”
“For what?”
“Luck.”
I turned the coin over in my hand. I had never been given anything by a stranger before, certainly not after a conversation like this.
A one-dollar coin that a student received from a taxi driver [YOON JUNGHOON]
“Thank you,” I said.
He shrugged, seemingly self-conscious and embarrassed by the emotion in my voice. “Study well,” he said.
The school gates came into view. The taxi slowed and rolled inside. I stepped out and stood there for a moment, watching the taxi disappear between the trees. Then I put the coin in my pocket.
with the Korea JoongAng Daily
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