I’ve been hauling freight since I was nineteen, and when daycare costs started draining my paycheck faster than diesel, I made a choice. I buckled a car seat into the rig, packed up some snacks, and took my son Micah on the road with me.

He’s two now—sharp as a tack, headstrong as a bull, and better at radio checks than some rookie drivers I’ve trained. Not everyone gets it, but the road is his playground. He loves the vibrations, the way we chase the sun across the sky, and the endless hum of tires on asphalt. Honestly? I think the rhythm calms us both.

We wear matching neon jackets, trade peanut butter crackers at red lights, and sing off-key ‘80s hits to keep each other awake. Most of our days are the same—rest stops, refueling, miles of blur. But what happened outside Amarillo still won’t leave me.

It was just before sunset. We’d pulled into a rest area. I stepped out to check the trailer straps while Micah plopped down on the curb with his toy dump truck. Out of nowhere, he looked up and asked, “Mama, when is he coming back?”