I’ve been hauling freight since I was nineteen, and when childcare costs got too high, I strapped a car seat into my rig and started bringing my son Micah along for the ride. He’s two now, sharp-eyed and strong-willed, with a little radio-check voice that could rival any rookie trucker out here.
It’s not your textbook parenting setup, but he loves the hum of the highway, the steady vibration of the steering wheel, and the rhythm of tires rolling over endless asphalt. Truthfully, I love having him close because the road gets lonely and he fills the silence with his laughter, his little songs, and his endless curiosity. We wear matching hi-vis jackets, swap goldfish crackers, and belt out the same off-key tunes for hundreds of miles. Most days blur together in a mix of refueling stops, weigh station checks, and diner coffee that somehow tastes the same no matter what state we’re in. But last week, just outside Amarillo, everything changed.
We pulled into a rest stop at dusk. I was tightening the trailer straps while Micah played with his toy dump truck in the gravel. Then he looked up at me and asked, “Mama, when is he coming back?” My hands froze on the strap. “Who, baby?” I asked. “The man in the front seat. He was here yesterday,” Micah said matter-of-factly. A chill ran down my spine. We’re always alone in that truck. No one else rides with us. I crouched beside him, trying to keep my voice steady.
“What man?” I asked. He didn’t hesitate. “The one who gave me the paper. He said it’s for you.” Later, when I reached into the glove box for my logbook, my fingers brushed over a folded piece of paper with Micah’s name scrawled on the front. Inside was a pencil sketch: me driving, Micah in the passenger seat clutching his toy truck, and I was handing him an apple slice. At the bottom were the words, “Keep going. He’s proud of you.” No signature. No explanation. I tucked it into the visor, unsettled but unsure what to think. Maybe it was some kind stranger’s way of encouraging me. Maybe it was a bizarre prank.
But the next morning as we rolled out of Amarillo, I caught Micah glancing at the empty passenger seat like he was expecting someone to be there. That night, parked behind a diner in New Mexico, I locked the cab from the inside. Every creak of the truck and every gust of wind made me tense. Micah curled against me, sleeping peacefully, while my mind raced. The handwriting nagged at me. It felt familiar somehow, like a whisper from the past I couldn’t quite catch. Three days later, a storm forced us off the road near Flagstaff. At the truck stop, an older man in flannel asked if I was the one traveling with the little boy. When I nodded cautiously, he told me to talk to a woman named Dottie inside. Dottie was petite, silver-haired, and straightforward.
“Your rig was parked out back yesterday,” she said. “I saw a man standing next to it. Beard, denim jacket. Tall. Looked like he was talking to someone inside.” My breath caught. “We weren’t even here yesterday,” I said. She nodded knowingly. “He was there, then he wasn’t. Like he stepped backward and disappeared.” Then she handed me another folded note. This one was a sketch of Micah asleep on my chest while I stared out the windshield, tears streaking my face.
Underneath it read: “You’re not alone. You never were.” My hands trembled as I carried Micah back to the rig, my heart pounding. Later, parked under a blanket of desert stars, it clicked. The sketches. The handwriting. The way Micah kept saying “he.” They were just like the drawings my brother Jordan used to make. My protector. My best friend. My hero. Jordan died six years ago when a drunk driver hit him on his way home from a night shift. He never met Micah. That night I cried harder than I had in years, tears that came from a place deep inside where grief and love live side by side.
And somehow, I knew—it was him. Since then, little signs have kept showing up. Not in ghost-story ways—no flickering lights or eerie whispers—just quiet moments that feel like guidance. Micah saying, “Uncle Jo says slow down,” right before I miss a dangerous turn. A toy we thought was lost showing up neatly in the glove box. Sketches tucked into coloring books or slipped between my trip logs. After a grueling delivery in Missouri, I found one of me standing beside the rig with a sunrise behind me, the words “Keep driving. You’re building something beautiful.” I’ve saved every single one.
Nine drawings now, each a gentle reminder that love doesn’t vanish. The last came near Sacramento just days ago, when I was bone-tired and questioning everything. I opened the cab fridge to grab milk, and taped to the carton was a note: “He’ll remember this—your strength, your love. Not the miles.” That’s why I’m sharing this story. Because maybe the road really does give back. Maybe love never leaves—it just finds new routes. Maybe the people we’ve lost are still with us, riding shotgun in the quiet hours, keeping us going when we’re about to break. So if you ever feel a nudge at the right moment, if you find a note where you least expect it, hold it close. Sometimes love doesn’t leave. It just changes seats.
