I Take My Toddler On Long Hauls—But Last Week He

Life on the Road—with a Little Extra

I’ve been hauling freight since I was nineteen. When daycare costs became too much, I strapped a car seat into my rig and brought my toddler, Micah, along. He’s sharp, stubborn, and oddly skilled at radio checks. The road is our rhythm—and his playground.

Most days blur together: long drives, rest stops, snack breaks. But just outside Amarillo, something strange happened. While I checked straps, Micah looked up and asked, “Mama, when is he coming back?” Confused, I asked who he meant. He replied, “The man who sits up front… The one who gave me the paper.”

Inside the glove box was a folded note with Micah’s name. A sketch showed us in the cab—Micah with his toy, me handing him apple slices. Below: “Keep going. He’s proud of you.”

A few days later near Flagstaff, a diner owner named Dottie said she’d seen “a man standing next to your rig… looked like he was talking to someone inside.” We hadn’t been there. She handed me another sketch—Micah asleep on my chest, me in tears, with the words: “You’re not alone. You never were.”

The drawings kept coming—nine in total. Each captured us in tender, private moments. The handwriting, the style—it was unmistakable. My brother Jordan. He died six years ago. Never met Micah. But somehow, Micah knew him.

Sometimes, Micah says things like, “Uncle Jo says slow down,” just before a sharp turn. Toys reappear in odd places. And then came the final note, taped to a milk carton: “He’ll remember this—your strength, your love. Not the miles.”

So if you’ve ever felt like someone’s still with you… maybe they are.

Because love doesn’t always leave. Sometimes, it just changes seats.