I’ve been hauling freight since I was nineteen—long miles, longer nights, and the kind of quiet only a highway can offer. But when daycare started costing more than diesel, I made a choice some folks didn’t quite understand. I strapped a car seat into my rig, packed a cooler full of snacks, and brought my toddler, Micah, on the road with me.
Micah’s two now. He’s sharp and stubborn and treats the highway like his backyard. He knows his way around a CB radio better than some rookies I’ve trained, and he loves the sound of the engine beneath his boots and the chase of the sunrise. Out here, it’s just the two of us—and that rhythm of the road that somehow keeps us grounded.
We wear matching neon vests, split peanut butter crackers at weigh stations, and sing ‘80s songs off-key to stay awake. It’s not a glamorous life, but it’s ours. Still, nothing prepared me for what happened just outside Amarillo.
One evening, we stopped at a rest area. I was checking the trailer while Micah played nearby with his toy truck. Out of the blue, he asked, “Mama, when is he coming back?”
I looked over. “Who, baby?”
“The man who sits in the front,” he said. “He was here yesterday.”
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