I’ve been hauling freight since I was nineteen. Long before my son Micah came along, it was just me, the rig, and the road—mile after mile of open highway, midnight diners, and worn-down motels with flickering neon signs.
When childcare costs spiraled out of reach, I strapped a car seat into the passenger side of my rig and brought Micah with me. He’s two now—sharp-eyed, stubborn, and already speaks into the CB like a seasoned rookie.
It’s not your average parenting setup. But it works for us.
He loves the hum of the road, the buzz of rubber on asphalt, the vibration through the steering wheel. He giggles when we hit bumps, sings off-key with me through crackling radios, and munches goldfish crackers like it’s fine dining. We wear matching hi-vis jackets and share more silence and songs than most people do in a lifetime.
Most days blur together: long hauls, truck stop coffee, weigh station lines. But one day—just outside Amarillo—everything changed.
“Mama, When Is He Coming Back?”
We were parked at a rest stop. The sun was setting, casting that dusty orange glow over the flat Texas plains. I was tightening the trailer straps, Micah playing nearby with his toy dump truck.
Then, out of nowhere, he looked up and asked,
“Mama, when is he coming back?”
I froze. “Who, baby?”
“The man in the front seat. He was here yesterday.”
My stomach dropped.
We’re always alone. No one else rides in the cab.
I knelt beside him. “What man, Micah?”
He looked me square in the eye. “The one who gave me the paper. He said it’s for you.”
The Note in the Glove Box
Later that night, digging through the glove box for my logbook, I found it.
A folded piece of paper.
Micah’s name was scrawled across the front.
Inside: a pencil sketch.
Me, hands on the wheel. Micah beside me, holding his toy truck. I was handing him an apple slice.
At the bottom, in small letters:
“Keep going. He’s proud of you.”
No name. No explanation. No logic.
I tucked it into the sun visor, unnerved but unsure what to believe. Maybe someone from a previous stop was being kind. Maybe it was some strange prank.
But the next morning, rolling out of Amarillo, I noticed Micah glancing again and again at the empty passenger seat.
As if he expected someone to be there.
A Stranger in Flannel
Three days later, a brutal storm forced us off the road near Flagstaff. The windshield was streaked with sleet, the wipers working overtime. We found refuge at a truck stop on the edge of town.
While filling up coffee and gas, an older man in a flannel shirt approached me.
“You the one traveling with the little boy?” he asked.
I nodded, cautious.
“You should talk to Dottie inside,” he said. “She saw something strange. About your truck.”
Dottie, silver-haired and no-nonsense, didn’t waste time.
“Your rig was parked out back yesterday,” she said. “I saw a man standing beside it. Tall, beard, denim jacket. Looked like he was talking to someone inside.”
My heart pounded.
“We weren’t in the truck yesterday,” I said slowly. “We were at a motel across town.”
She didn’t flinch. “Well, he was there. And then he wasn’t. Like he stepped backward and disappeared.”
Then she handed me a folded piece of paper.
Another sketch.
Micah curled asleep on my chest, me staring out the windshield, tears on my face.
The words beneath it:
“You’re not alone. You never were.”
A Brother’s Silent Love
That night, I lay awake in the cab, Micah tucked beside me, soft breaths steady against my arm.
And it hit me.
The handwriting. The shading. The style.
Jordan.
My older brother.
The same one who taught me how to drive stick, who carried me on his shoulders when I was five, who sketched superheroes and handed them to me with peanut butter hands.
He died six years ago.
A drunk driver hit him on the highway one rainy night. He never met Micah.
But he used to draw just like that.
The shading. The small lettering. The way he made you look like you were glowing—like you mattered.
I broke down that night. Full, gut-wrenching sobs that spilled out years of grief I’d buried under diesel fumes and drive-thrus.
Somehow—I knew. It was him.
Small Signs in the Silence
Since then, there’ve been no ghostly apparitions. No flickering lights or echoing voices.
Just small, quiet things.
Micah, saying:
“Uncle Jo says slow down,”
right before a missed turn I hadn’t seen coming.
A lost toy truck reappearing in the glove box.
A sketch—me laughing with Micah at a rest stop—tucked into his coloring book.
After a brutal day delivering in Missouri, I opened the driver’s door to find a folded paper wedged inside the handle.
A drawing of me beside the rig, sun rising behind me.
“Keep driving. You’re building something beautiful.”
I’ve saved them all. Nine sketches now.
Each one feels like a whisper across the miles. A quiet kind of love that doesn’t vanish—it just rides beside you, unseen.
The Note That Made Me Tell This Story
Just a few days ago, we were in Sacramento. I was running on fumes—mentally and physically. The freight was heavy. The traffic worse. I questioned everything.
Then I opened the cab fridge.
Taped to the milk carton:
“He’ll remember this—your strength, your love. Not the miles.”
That was it.
That was the moment I knew I had to tell this story.
Maybe the Road Gives Back
Maybe the highway isn’t just long and lonely.
Maybe it remembers.
Maybe love, when it’s strong enough, doesn’t disappear when people do. It just… changes seats.
So if you ever feel something nudge you just in time…
Or find a note where none should be…
Or feel a warmth that doesn’t make sense…
Look again.
You might not be driving alone.
And if you find a sketch—folded gently, no signature, just truth—keep it close.
Because sometimes the ones we’ve lost… never really leave.
They just ride shotgun.
