Wheels of Doubt: Confessions of a Pizza Delivery Man

The night felt thick, layered with humidity and something heavier—a guilt that seeped into every breath Marcus took. The pizzeria lights dimmed behind him as he stepped outside, balancing cardboard boxes that felt heavier tonight than they ever had before. It wasn't the cheese, the crust, or the toppings; it was the weight of memory.

Marcus slid onto the cracked leather seat of his battered sedan, gripping the steering wheel tighter than usual. Delivering pizzas was supposed to be simple—straightforward, predictable. But lately, each ride became a haunting tour through his past mistakes.

The engine sputtered to life, a rough rumble matching the turmoil inside him. He drove through familiar streets cloaked in shadows, each pothole jolting memories forward. The faces of customers blurred into anonymity, but one remained crystal clear—Mrs. Thompson, with her gentle smile and warm eyes. The night she died played in Marcus's mind on a relentless loop.

Had he arrived just minutes earlier with her usual pepperoni pizza, he could've seen her collapse through the open door, could've called for help. Instead, he hesitated, distracted by a phone call, wasting crucial moments that might have mattered.

Tonight's final delivery was on her street. Marcus’s heart sank deeper into his chest as he parked. The streetlamp flickered unevenly, casting fragmented light across the pavement. He grabbed the pizza and stepped out slowly, each step toward the familiar house amplifying his remorse.

A soft voice startled him as he approached.

“You look like you're carrying the world there, Marcus.” It was Sheila, Mrs. Thompson's daughter. She leaned against her mother's old porch railing, eyes filled with a mix of grief and compassion.

Marcus hesitated, eyes downcast. “It's heavier than usual tonight.”

Sheila's voice softened. “Mom always liked you. She said you reminded her of my brother.” Her words twisted the guilt deeper. Marcus shifted uncomfortably, unable to meet her gaze.

“I…I'm sorry about that night," Marcus choked out, voice barely audible. "I should've been quicker. She might still be here.”

Silence hung thickly between them, broken only by the distant hum of traffic. Sheila stepped closer, her expression gentle but firm.

“You can't keep blaming yourself, Marcus. Mom wouldn't want that. Sometimes…sometimes things just happen.” Her words, though comforting, barely reached through the fog of his remorse.

Marcus nodded weakly, offering the pizza. Sheila took it carefully, her fingers brushing against his—a fleeting moment of shared sorrow and understanding.

Driving away, Marcus felt a strange warmth settle alongside his guilt. Perhaps it was hope—fragile, hesitant, but there nonetheless. Maybe Sheila was right. Maybe redemption wasn't found in undoing past mistakes but in learning to carry them, lighter each day, until they no longer defined the journey.