I’ve been driving trucks since I was nineteen. When daycare costs got too high, I started bringing my two-year-old son Micah along with me on the road. The truck is like his playground — he enjoys the vibrations, chasing the sunlight, and the constant sound of the tires. We wear matching bright jackets, munch on peanut butter crackers during breaks, and sing off-key ‘80s songs to keep ourselves awake.
One evening near Amarillo, while we were taking a break at a rest area, Micah suddenly asked, “When is he coming back? The man who sits up front.” I was taken aback — we’ve always been just the two of us in the truck. That night, I discovered a folded note in the glove compartment with a drawing of us and the words, “Keep going. He’s proud of you.”
A few days later near Flagstaff, a diner owner mentioned she saw a man with a beard and denim jacket standing by my truck, talking to someone inside. She handed me another note with a sketch and the message, “You’re not alone. You never were.”
The handwriting and drawings reminded me of my brother Jordan, who passed away six years ago in a car accident. He never got to meet Micah, but somehow Micah seemed to know him. Since then, Micah has said things like, “Uncle Jo says slow down,” and lost toys have shown up in strange places. More notes have come my way, encouraging me during tough times and reminding me of love and strength.
This experience has shown me that love doesn’t always disappear — sometimes, it just changes seats.
