The Bus Driver Who Always Waited for an Old Lady — And How a Whole City Honored Him

I never thought that waiting an extra five minutes could change my life. But it did.

It all started three years ago, when I first saw Mrs. Mercedes running—well, “running” is generous—after my bus at the Avenida Libertador stop. She had her cane, dragging her feet as fast as she could, waving her free hand like her life depended on it.

I stopped the bus, of course.

“Thank you, dear,” she panted, holding onto the handrail. “These old bones aren’t what they used to be.”

“Take your time, ma’am. Have a seat,” I said.

From that day on, Mrs. Mercedes became a regular on the number 47 line every Tuesday and Friday. She went to the hospital for check-ups and sometimes visited her sister in San Telmo. The problem was always the same: she would arrive just as I was supposed to leave.

The second time I saw her approaching, my colleague Raúl, riding along that day, said:

“Come on, start moving. We’re already late.”

But I stayed put, watching her through the rearview mirror. There she was in her green coat, purse swinging from her arm.

“We’ll wait,” I said.

“Roberto, you’ll get in trouble…”

“Then let them. She’s worth it.”

Mrs. Mercedes climbed aboard, smiling with those bright eyes of hers.

“You’re an angel, young man,” she said.

And that’s how it became a routine. Every Tuesday and Friday, if she wasn’t there yet, I waited—thirty seconds, a minute, two minutes… whatever it took. The other passengers never complained; most had grown fond of her. Some even looked out the windows to warn me:

“Roberto, here comes Mrs. Mercedes!”

Over time, she started bringing me homemade alfajores.

“My granddaughter made them,” she’d say, though I suspected she had baked them herself.

One July Friday, she didn’t show up. Not the next Tuesday, either. One week passed. Two weeks. I kept waiting at the stop, eyes on the corner, but she didn’t come.

“She must be sick,” said a woman who took the bus at the same time. “Poor thing, she must be around eighty-five.”

Three weeks later, I finally saw her. She moved slower than ever, this time with a walker. I got off the bus and went to help her.

“Mrs. Mercedes, are you okay?”

“Oh, Roberto,” her eyes welled up with tears. “I was hospitalized. But I told my daughter, ‘I have to take Roberto’s bus one more time.’”

I helped her up, and the entire bus erupted in applause.

Last Tuesday was my final day driving the 47. After thirty-two years on the line, I was retiring. When I arrived at my usual stop, it wasn’t just Mrs. Mercedes waiting. There were about a hundred people—passengers from over the years, neighbors, even the corner shop owner.

They held a banner that read: “Thank you, Roberto. For teaching us that kindness is never late.”

I stepped off the bus, stunned. Mrs. Mercedes came slowly, supported by her granddaughter, and hugged me.

“You waited for me so many times,” she said. “Today, we’re waiting for you.”

Even the mayor was there. They gave me a plaque. They announced that the Avenida Libertador and San Martín stop would now be called “Roberto Méndez Stop, the Bus Driver Who Always Waits.”

I barely knew what to say. My voice trembled.

“I… I just waited for Mrs. Mercedes. It’s nothing,” I stammered.

A man from the crowd shouted:

“It is something! In this city, everyone rushes and no one waits for anyone!”

The applause roared again.

That night, I told my wife what happened. She smiled softly:

“See? That’s why I love you. Because in a world that rushes, you always knew how to stop.”

I kept the plaque on the dining table, next to photos of my kids. But what I truly treasure is something else: Mrs. Mercedes’s smile every time she boarded the bus, and the little “thank you, dear” she never failed to say.

People call it extraordinary. I call it simple. Sometimes the most extraordinary thing we can do is wait for someone else, even when the world tells us to move on.