For over two decades, I navigated the long and often desolate highways as a truck driver. The familiar hum of the engine, the stretches of road that seemed endless, and the quiet comfort of truck stops became my life’s rhythm. Yet, an encounter with a hitchhiker forever altered my journey, bringing unexpected changes, an emotional reunion, and a decision that would steer me off the road for good.

In a field dominated by men, my choice to become a truck driver wasn’t usual, but I valued the stability it brought. Life has a way of redirecting plans, and when my husband left me and our young twins, Gia and Vinnie, I knew I had to take the wheel in every sense.

Growing up, my father was a truck driver till he was fifty-five. His tales of the roads and places he saw were as familiar as his absence during long hauls. It wasn’t an easy life, but it provided sustenance. Alone with two kids to raise, trucking was the means to an end. With a commercial license in hand, I found a solid company with good benefits and hit the road running.

The hardest part was the precious time away from my children. Weeks away meant missing birthdays, school plays, and countless cherished moments. My mother took the reins at home, while I often replayed video snippets of moments lost. It pained me, but my job ensured that my kids never faced deprivation like I had.

Now adults, Gia and Vinnie were leading their lives. Although they appreciated my efforts, my mother held more memories with them than I did. That weight was my ever-present companion on each journey.

One particularly somber evening, everything shifted. The road stretched on, stark and empty, when I noticed a boy, probably sixteen, standing near the highway. His clothes were rumpled, and his posture spoke of weariness, yet his eyes revealed uncertainty—a soul caught between destinations.

Despite my company’s no-hitchhiker rule, intuition urged me to stop. I slowed down and pulled over, rolling down my window.

“Need a ride, kid?” I asked, my tone combining firmness with warmth, reminiscent of how I spoke to Gia and Vinnie.

He hesitated, looking at the sprawling road ahead.

“I don’t have all day, you know. It’s getting dark, and this isn’t the safest spot to linger,” I added lightly.

With a reluctant nod, he clamored into the cab, battling with the seat height.

“First time in a big rig?” I teased as he struggled with his seatbelt.

“Yeah,” he murmured, finally clicking it in.

“I’m Julianne, but folks call me Jules.”

His gaze remained on the window, barely whispering his name, “Alex.”

The silence was comfortable, filled only by the steady engine thrum. Eventually, I probed, “Where are you headed?”

“I don’t really know.”

“Running away from something?”

He nodded, his story untold.

“I’ve been on these roads twenty years,” I remarked. “I’ve seen every sort of escape. Often, running makes things tougher.”

“You know nothing about me!” he retorted, but his voice cracked.

“That’s true, but that look in your eyes… I recognize it,” I gently replied.

The silence returned as he faced the window.

A gas station loomed up ahead, reminding me of my near-empty tank. Once parked, I asked, “Need anything from inside?”

His stomach’s growl answered before he could decline.

Inside, I picked up sodas, chips, and a couple of turkey sandwiches. Back in the truck, I tossed him a sandwich.

“Can’t have you starving now.”

He caught it, pathetically muttering, “Thanks.”

“Want to talk about it?” I queried as he fiddled with the sandwich wrapper. “Seems like a lot is on your mind.”

With hesitation, he shared, “I argued with my mom. So, I left.”

“Must have been a big fight.”

“She wouldn’t let me go to France with my class. Others are going, but she said it’s too expensive.” His voice trembled. “I hate being the poorest kid.”

As his words lingered, I returned to my seat. “Tell me about your mom.”

“She works long hours at a supermarket. My dad left when I was small. She’s always stressing over money.”

“Sounds like a tough hand you both got dealt.”

“Whatever,” he mumbled, his resentment shielding more profound sorrow.

“My husband walked out when my twins were four,” I shared. “Had to figure out survival quickly.”

He perked up, amusement faintly crossing his face. “Is that why you’re trucking? Never seen a woman doing this.”

“Yeah. Missed many moments with my kids, but they never went hungry. And same goes for your mom.”

He sighed, “She cries at night, talks on the phone about bills.”

“Must be tough hearing that.”

“I just wanted one trip,” he admitted, choking back emotion. “Now, I feel like the worst son ever.”

“You’re far from that, Alex. You and your mom are trying your best.”

In silence again, he finished his meal. Eventually, he asked, “Can you drop me at the bus stop?”

“No,” I stated, meeting his eyes. “We’re going home.”

He groaned, “She’ll kill me.”

“Nah,” I laughed. “She’ll hug you too tight, then maybe kill you.”

As we arrived at a modest home, the front door swung open before Alex could step out.

“Alex!” his mother cried, engulfing him in a tearful hug.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he blubbered. “I was being stupid.”

With tears in her eyes, she thanked me profoundly. “I was frantic after his note… calling everyone…”

“It’s okay,” I assured. “I’ve raised teenagers, too.”

She insisted on a photo with Alex, which she later posted on social media. It went viral, and soon, my boss called me in.

I braced to be reprimanded. Instead, he beamed, “Our celebrity! There’s a position open, double pay and regular hours.”

That management role would mean no more lonely highways.

That evening, I’d helped a young man find his way back home. Little did I know, he’d helped guide me toward my own.