I’ve been hauling freight since I was nineteen years old, and when childcare costs became impossible to manage, I did what I had to do to keep working and keep my son close—I strapped a car seat into my rig and started bringing Micah along on long hauls. He’s two now, sharp-eyed, strong-willed, and with a little radio-check voice that could outdo most rookie truckers.
It’s not the kind of parenting setup you’d find in a manual, but it works for us. Micah loves the hum of the highway, the way the steering wheel vibrates under my hands, and the endless rhythm of tires rolling over asphalt. And truthfully, I love having him beside me because the road gets lonely, and his giggles, his questions, and his little songs fill the silence in ways nothing else could. We wear matching hi-vis jackets, trade goldfish crackers like currency, and sing the same out-of-tune songs over hundreds of miles. Most days blur together—fuel stops, weigh stations, and diner coffee that never tastes any different—but last week, just outside Amarillo, something happened that stopped me cold.
We pulled into a rest stop at dusk, and while I tightened the trailer straps, Micah sat nearby playing with his toy dump truck in the dirt. Out of nowhere, he looked up and asked, “Mama, when is he coming back?” My hands froze. “Who, baby?” I asked, trying to sound calm. “The man in the front seat. He was here yesterday,” he said matter-of-factly. My stomach dropped. We’re always alone in that truck. No one else rides with us. I crouched beside him, my heart hammering. “What man?” I asked carefully.
Micah didn’t hesitate. “The one who gave me the paper. He said it’s for you.” Hours later, when I reached into the glove box for my logbook, my fingers brushed over something unexpected—a folded piece of paper with Micah’s name written on it. Inside was a pencil sketch of me driving, Micah in the passenger seat clutching his toy truck, and I was handing him an apple slice. At the bottom, in simple writing, were the words: “Keep going. He’s proud of you.” No signature, no explanation. I tucked it into the visor, unsettled, my mind spinning. Maybe some kind stranger had left it earlier. Maybe it was a weird prank. But the next morning, as we rolled out of Amarillo, I caught Micah staring at the empty passenger seat like he expected someone to be there. That night, parked behind a diner in New Mexico, I locked the cab tight, every creak of the rig making me tense.
Micah slept soundly, curled up against me, while I lay awake, haunted by the handwriting that felt so familiar yet just out of reach. Three days later, a storm forced us to stop near Flagstaff. At the truck stop, an older man in a flannel shirt asked if I was traveling with a little boy. When I nodded, he told me to talk to Dottie inside. She was petite, silver-haired, and direct. “Your rig was parked out back yesterday,” she said. “I saw a man next to it. Beard, denim jacket, tall. Looked like he was talking to someone inside.” My breath caught.
“We weren’t here yesterday,” I said. She just nodded and handed me another folded note. This sketch showed Micah asleep on my chest while I stared out the windshield, tears on my face. Underneath were the words: “You’re not alone. You never were.” My hands shook as I carried Micah back to the rig, my heart pounding. Later that night, under the desert stars, it clicked—the drawings, the penmanship, Micah saying “he.” They were just like my brother Jordan’s sketches. My big brother. My protector. My hero. He died six years ago, killed by a drunk driver on his way home from work. He never met Micah. That night I cried like I hadn’t in years, deep, aching sobs, but beneath the grief was something else—a certainty. Somehow, it was him. Since then, small signs keep appearing. Not in scary, ghost-story ways, just quiet moments that feel like guidance.
Micah saying, “Uncle Jo says slow down,” just before a dangerous turn. A toy we thought was lost turning up neatly in the glove box. New sketches appearing in coloring books or tucked between my trip logs. After a grueling delivery in Missouri, I found one showing me standing beside the rig at sunrise, the words: “Keep driving. You’re building something beautiful.” I’ve saved every single one. There are nine now. The last came a few days ago near Sacramento when I was exhausted and doubting everything. I opened the cab fridge, and taped to the milk carton was a note: “He’ll remember this—your strength, your love. Not the miles.” That’s why I’m telling this story. Because maybe the road does give back. Maybe love doesn’t disappear—it just finds new ways to reach us. Maybe the people we lose never really leave; they just change seats and ride beside us in the quiet hours. So if you ever feel a nudge at just the right time, or find a note where you least expect it, hold it close. Sometimes love doesn’t leave—it just moves to the passenger seat.
