I Haul Freight With My Toddler—But What He Said Last Week Stopped Me in My Tracks
I’ve been on the road hauling freight since I was nineteen. When childcare got too expensive, I buckled a car seat into the cab and brought my son, Micah, with me. He’s two now—smart, stubborn, and already better at radio checks than some rookies I’ve worked with.
It’s not the typical way to raise a kid, but he loves it—the rumble of the engine, the steady hum of tires on the pavement, the endless horizon rolling past. And truth be told, having him with me eases the loneliness.
We’ve got matching hi-vis jackets, share snacks, and belt out the same off-key songs through mile after mile. Most days blur together—truck stops, loading docks, fueling stations.
Then last week, just outside Amarillo, something happened that rattled me.
We’d pulled into a rest area at sunset. I was tightening the trailer straps while Micah sat on the curb, humming to himself and rolling his little toy dump truck back and forth.
Then, out of nowhere, he looked up at me and asked, “Mama, when is he coming back?”
I paused. “Who, baby?”
Micah pointed toward the cab. “The man who rides in front. He was here yesterday.”
My heart skipped.
Because we’ve always been alone. Always. I don’t let anyone else in that truck.
I knelt beside him. “What man, Micah?”
He didn’t seem scared—just matter-of-fact. “The one who gave me the paper. He said it’s for you.”
I searched the cab—nothing seemed out of place. But later, when I opened the glove compartment to grab my logbook, I found it.
A folded piece of paper.
Micah’s name written neatly across the front.
Inside was a pencil sketch—simple but precise—of me and Micah in the cab. He had his toy truck, and I had one hand on the wheel, the other reaching back to hand him an apple slice.
At the bottom were the words: Keep going. He’s proud of you.
No signature. No explanation.
I sat there staring at it, heart pounding. I didn’t tell Micah. I didn’t want to spook him.
I folded it and tucked it into the visor, trying to shake off the chill crawling up my neck. Maybe someone at our last stop had been watching. Maybe it was just a strange joke.
But the next morning, as we rolled out of Amarillo, I caught Micah glancing at the passenger seat like he expected someone to be sitting there.
That night in New Mexico, parked behind a small diner, I barely slept. I locked the cab from the inside and kept my arm around Micah while he slept. Every noise outside made me jump.
The drawing unsettled me—not because it was creepy, but because it felt oddly familiar. The handwriting stirred a memory I couldn’t quite place.
Three days later, near Flagstaff, a hailstorm and slick roads forced me to stop early at a truck stop. As I fueled up, a man in a dusty flannel approached me. He looked weathered, eyes lined with years.
“You the one with the little boy?” he asked.
I nodded cautiously.
“You might want to talk to Dottie inside,” he said. “She saw something strange yesterday. About your truck.”
Inside, Dottie—a petite woman with sharp silver eyes—looked me over. “You the driver with the toddler?”
“Yes,” I said. “What did you see?”
She leaned closer. “Yesterday, when your truck was parked out back, I saw a tall man with a beard in a worn denim jacket standing by the passenger side. Looked like he was talking to someone inside.”
I frowned. “There was no one there. We weren’t even in the truck.”
“Well, someone was,” she replied. “When I went to ask if he needed help, he stepped back into the dark… and was gone.”
A shiver ran through me. “Did he leave anything?”
She nodded. “Come with me.”
Behind the diner, she pulled a folded paper from a small mailbox.
It was another drawing—this time of Micah asleep on my chest while I stared out the windshield, tear tracks on my cheeks.
Underneath were the words: You’re not alone. You never were.
My knees nearly gave out.
I thanked her and hurried Micah back to the truck, my hands trembling.
That night, on a deserted gravel pull-off, I sat in the cab after Micah fell asleep, holding both sketches. And it hit me.
The handwriting. The style. The way Micah kept saying “he.”
It was just like the drawings my older brother Jordan used to make when we were kids. Jordan—who was my protector, my best friend, and who died in a car accident six years ago.
He never met Micah.
But something deep inside me knew—it was him.
After that night, subtle things began to happen. Micah would say things like, “Uncle Jo says slow down,” just before I’d nearly miss a turn or hit black ice. Lost items would reappear in the glove box. And sometimes, another sketch would turn up—always when I was struggling most.
Once, after a grueling delivery in Missouri, I found one tucked in Micah’s coloring book—a drawing of me standing by my rig at sunrise, with the words: Keep driving. You’re building something beautiful.
I’ve kept them all. Nine so far.
The last arrived a few days ago outside Sacramento. I was questioning everything—whether this life was fair to Micah—when I opened the cab fridge and found a note taped to the milk carton.
No sketch this time. Just a line: He’ll remember this—your strength, your love. Not the miles.
And that’s why I’m sharing this.
Because I think sometimes the road gives back—in quiet, unexplainable ways.
I’m still out here. Still hauling. Still raising Micah the only way I know how.
And sometimes, in the hum of the night highway, I feel like Jordan’s right there, riding shotgun.
If you’ve ever lost someone but felt them near—pay attention.
You might just find your own note in the glove box.
Because love doesn’t always disappear. Sometimes… it just changes seats.