After two decades of driving a big rig, I thought I had seen it all—long stretches of road, unpredictable weather, and the kind of loneliness that sits heavy in your bones. But I never expected that picking up a hitchhiker would lead to a tearful reunion, a viral thank-you, and the end of my days on the road.
Being a woman in the trucking industry wasn’t the norm, but I didn’t shy away from a challenge. Life has a way of steering you down unexpected paths, and mine took a sharp turn when my husband walked out, leaving me to raise our four-year-old twins, Gia and Vinnie, on my own.
My dad had been a truck driver until he retired at 55, and I grew up watching him come and go, always returning with stories from his routes. Despite the long hours, it kept food on our table. When I found myself as a single mother, I knew trucking would do the same for my kids. So, I got my commercial license and hit the road.
It paid the bills, but at a cost. I missed birthdays, school plays, and countless moments I couldn’t get back. My mom stepped in to raise the kids while I was away, and while they grew up well, the guilt of missing their childhood never left me.
Now, my twins were adults, out there living their own lives. They still called, still loved me, but my mother had been more of a parent to them than I ever was. That guilt sat beside me, whispering of all the moments I had missed.
Then, one evening, on a quiet stretch of highway under a gray sky, everything changed.
Up ahead, I spotted a teenage boy, no older than sixteen, standing alone by the roadside. His clothes were wrinkled, his posture defeated, but it was the look in his eyes that caught my attention—it was like he had no idea where to go next.
My company had strict rules against picking up hitchhikers, but rules don’t always account for gut feelings.
I slowed down and rolled down my window. “Hey there, kid. Need a ride?”
He hesitated, glancing down the empty road.
“Look, I don’t have all day,” I said, trying to keep my tone casual. “It’s getting dark, and this isn’t exactly the safest place to be hanging around.”
After a pause, he nodded and climbed in, struggling with the height of the cab.
“First time in a big rig?” I asked as he fumbled with the seatbelt.
“Yeah,” he mumbled.
“My name’s Julianne,” I said, pulling back onto the highway. “Most people call me Jules.”
“Alex,” he muttered, staring out the window.
We drove in silence for a while, the hum of the engine filling the space.
“Where are you headed?” I asked eventually.
“I don’t really know.”
“Running away from something?”
He nodded, but didn’t elaborate.
“I’ve been on these roads a long time,” I said. “Seen a lot of people trying to escape things. Most of the time, running just makes everything worse.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” he snapped, but I could hear the vulnerability beneath his words.
“You’re right,” I said quietly. “But I know that look in your eyes.”
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