I Take My Toddler On Long Hauls
Life on the Road with Micah
I’ve been hauling freight since I was nineteen. When daycare costs got too high, I made a choice: I brought my toddler, Micah, on the road with me. At two years old, he’s sharp and fearless, loving the truck’s rhythm and our off-key ’80s singalongs. Our days are mostly routine—rest stops, crackers, and miles—but something happened outside Amarillo that changed everything.
A Stranger, a Sketch, and a Question
We had stopped at a rest area when Micah looked up and asked, “Mama, when is he coming back?” Confused, I asked who he meant. He said, “The man who gave me the paper. He said it’s for you.” Later, I found a folded note in the glove box—“Micah” written on the front. Inside was a pencil sketch of us in the cab. At the bottom: “Keep going. He’s proud of you.” My hands went cold.
More Signs, More Messages
In Flagstaff, an old man told me to talk to a diner worker, Dottie. She’d seen someone by my truck: “Tall, beard, denim jacket… looked like he was talking to someone inside.” We weren’t there. She handed me another note—another sketch. This one showed me crying with Micah asleep on my chest. It read: “You’re not alone. You never were.” That’s when I knew—it was Jordan, my late brother. He’d drawn like that. He died six years ago. He never met Micah.
A Presence That Stays
Since then, drawings have kept coming, each one arriving when I needed it most. Micah mentions “Uncle Jo,” warning me just in time. One final message came on a bad day: “He’ll remember this—your strength, your love. Not the miles.”
If you’ve ever felt something like this, hold onto it.
“Because love doesn’t always leave. Sometimes, it just changes seats.”
