Trucking solo with a toddler isn’t for the faint-hearted, but after my husband died, the open road became our sanctuary. Jamie, now three, has logged more miles than most adults, content to watch the world blur by from his car seat throne. Our routine was simple until the day he asked, “Daddy says hi – when’s his turn to drive?”
My coffee cup slipped from my hands. His father had been gone since Jamie was six months old. That evening, I found the first note – a perfect sketch of Jamie sleeping with his favorite truck blanket, tucked behind the sun visor where only I would find it. The handwriting froze me – it was Mark’s precise architectural script, down to the way he dotted his i’s.
At first I thought it was some cruel prank, but then the drawings kept coming. A diner cashier in Nebraska described seeing a man in a familiar leather jacket near our truck – one that matched Mark’s exactly. A truck stop mechanic asked if “your husband” needed help with our rig’s alternator, describing Mark to a tee.
The final proof came when Jamie produced a crayon drawing of “Daddy driving with angels.” The details matched Mark’s fatal accident scene – details no three-year-old could know. Now when Jamie chats with “Daddy in the front seat” or warns me about icy bridges before they appear, I listen. Love doesn’t disappear – it just changes lanes.
