I Take My Toddler On Long Hauls—But Last Week He Said Something That Stopped Me Cold

Since I was nineteen, I have been a freight driver. When childcare became too costly, I just strapped Micah into a car seat and drove away. He is now two years old, bright, obstinate, and already more adept at radio-checking than some new hires.

He enjoys the road, even though it’s not really traditional. The sound, motion, and consistent cadence of tires on concrete. And truthfully? The loneliness is lessened by having him nearby.

Every stretch of roadway is filled with the same off-key songs, shared food, and matching hi-vis jackets. The majority of the time, truck stops, delivery docks, and refueling routines blend together.

However, something occurred just outside of Amarillo last week.

Just before nightfall, we had paused at a rest place. Micah sat on the curb, playing with his toy dump truck and humming to himself as I checked the trailer straps.

Then he suddenly glanced up at me and asked, “Mama, when is he coming back?”

I blinked. “Who, sweetheart?”

Micah gestured to the taxi. The man seated at the front. Yesterday, he was present.

I went cold.

since we had been by ourselves. We’re by ourselves all the time. No one else is allowed in the truck. Never.

I knelt next to him. “Micah, what man?”

He appeared unfrightened. Simply spoken, matter of fact. “The person who handed me the document.” It is for you, he said.

I looked at the taxi. Nothing overt. Later, though, it was there when I opened the glove box to retrieve my logbook.

A sheet of folded paper.

The name Micah is inscribed across the front.

And within—

It was a drawing.

Simple but meticulous, completed in pencil. It showed Micah and I sitting in the taxi together. I had one hand on the wheel of Micah’s toy truck while I reached back to give him a slice of apple.

There was a remark at the bottom that read, “Keep going. He is pleased with you.

No name. No justification. That’s all.

My heart pounded like a drum in my chest as I gazed at it for a long time. I was unsure of how to interpret it. Micah was not informed. I did not wish to frighten him.

Instead, in an attempt to combat the shiver that was creeping up my spine, I folded it up and placed it in the visor. Perhaps someone had come too close during the previous halt. It might have been a strange joke. Perhaps it had no meaning.

However, as we rode out of Amarillo the following morning, I looked at Micah in the mirror. As if expecting someone to be there, he was once more observing the passenger seat.

I parked behind a New Mexico eatery that evening. I didn’t get much sleep. Micah nestled close to me as I kept my arm across him and closed the taxi from the inside. I recoiled at the sound of everything outdoors.

I was haunted by the drawing because it felt familiar, not because it was eerie. Something about the penmanship evoked a memory that I was unable to fully identify.

We encountered a period of unfavorable weather close to Flagstaff three days later. Poor visibility, slippery roads, with hail the size of marbles. I decided to wait it out and drove into a truck stop early.

An older man with a filthy flannel came up to me while I was filling up. His eyes were tired and his face wrinkled, as if he had seen too many winters.

He said, “You the one with the little boy?”

Instantly aware, I nodded.

“You might want to talk to Dottie inside,” he continued when he paused. Yesterday, she saw something odd. Regarding your truck.

I felt sick to my stomach.

Dottie was a small woman with silver hair and a look that could silence a room when she entered the diner.

“You the driver with the toddler?” she asked after giving me a quick glance.

“Yes,” I replied, my heart pounding. “What did you observe?”

Dottie leaned in and used a towel to clean her hands. “I was wrapping things up yesterday evening. Out back, your rig was parked. A man was standing at the passenger side, as I could see. Bearded, tall, and wearing a denim jacket. He appeared to be conversing with someone inside.

I gazed. “No one was present. At the time, we weren’t even in the truck.

She furrowed her brow. “Well, there was someone. Because when I went outside to see if he needed anything, he suddenly vanished. As if he simply retreated into the shadows and vanished.

I took a deep breath. “Has he left anything behind?”

She hesitated. “Come along with me.”

She reached into a dilapidated mailbox by the side door out back, close to where I had parked. “This was pushed in here this morning.”

Another piece of folded paper.

This one had no name, but when I opened it, I saw another sketch of me staring out the windshield with tears on my cheeks and Micah dozing on my chest.

Below it are the words: “You’re not alone. You weren’t.

My knees became weak.

With trembling hands, I brought Micah back to the truck and thanked her, hardly able to speak.

I turned off the freeway onto a peaceful dirt road that evening. I needed time to reflect. I required room.

Micah went to sleep, so I sat in the driver’s seat and gazed out at the desert sky while holding onto the paintings.

At last, it clicked.

The handwriting. The lines of the sketch. Micah’s constant use of the pronoun “he.”

It reminded me exactly of the drawings my brother used to do when we were younger.

Jordan, my older brother. As a child, he had protected me. Six years ago, while returning home from his night job, he was struck by an intoxicated driver and perished in the collision.

Micah was never introduced to him.

I began to cry—the type that makes your entire body tremble. Because something inside of me knew, whether you believe in ghosts or not. He was the one.

Micah rolled over with a gentle smile after stirring in his sleep and whispering something I couldn’t hear.

I was at a loss for words. Don’t yet.

However, after that evening, things began to shift.
Not in a glitzy, narrative fashion. No chilly areas or flickering lights. Only signs.

I would almost miss a curve or hit a piece of black ice when Micah would say something like, “Uncle Jo says slow down.”

There would be a toy in the glove box that I believed was missing.

And occasionally, just when I needed it most, another drawing would show up.

I once discovered one hidden inside Micah’s coloring book after a particularly trying delivery in Missouri, when I was worn out, broke, and thinking about giving up completely.

It showed me standing erect next to my setup with the sun rising in the background. And the phrase: “Continue to drive. You’re creating something lovely.

All of them were mine. Now there are nine. From someplace beyond the dust, diesel, and cacophony, each one sounded like a whisper.

The most recent one occurred outside of Sacramento a few days ago.

We had arrived at a peaceful rest area. I was worn out. Micah was irritable. I was doubting everything once more, including if I was doing more harm than good and whether this was the proper life for him.

Another note was taped to the milk container when I opened the cab’s refrigerator.

This time, no sketch. Only one sentence.

He’ll keep in mind your affection and strength. Not the distance.

I made the decision to share this experience at that point.

Because the road, in my opinion, gives back sometimes. In quiet, weird ways.

There are some things that cannot be explained. And perhaps that’s alright.

I just know I’m still out there. I’m still driving. I’m still doing my best to raise Micah.

And occasionally I feel like I’m not alone when the night lasts a long time and the highway hums softly beneath us.

Jordan still seems to be riding shotgun, in my opinion.

Therefore, pay attention if you have ever lost someone but still felt their presence.

Examine your surroundings.

There may also be a letter in the glove compartment.

Hold on to it if you do.

For love doesn’t always go away. It simply switches chairs sometimes.

Please share this story if it moved you. Perhaps someone else needs to be reminded that they are not as alone as they may believe.

I’d also like to know whether you’ve ever received any weird or subtle signs.

Who knows? Perhaps they are all riding beside us out there together.

Mile by mile.