I’ve been hauling freight since I was nineteen. When daycare became too expensive, I started taking my two-year-old son Micah on the road with me. The road is his playground — he loves the vibrations, chasing the sun, and the steady hum of tires. We wear matching neon jackets, share peanut butter crackers at stops, and sing off-key ‘80s songs to stay awake.

One evening near Amarillo, while stopped at a rest area, Micah suddenly asked, “When is he coming back? The man who sits up front.” I was shocked — we’ve always been alone in the truck. That night, I found a folded note in the glove box with a pencil sketch of us and the words, “Keep going. He’s proud of you.”

A few days later near Flagstaff, a diner owner told me she saw a man with a beard and denim jacket standing by my truck, talking to someone inside. She gave me another note with a sketch and the message, “You’re not alone. You never were.”

The handwriting and drawings reminded me of my brother Jordan, who died six years ago in a car accident. He never met Micah, but somehow Micah seemed to know him. Since then, Micah has said things like, “Uncle Jo says slow down,” and lost toys have appeared in odd places. More notes have followed, encouraging me during hard times and reminding me of love and strength.

This experience has taught me that love doesn’t always leave — sometimes, it just changes seats.