I bought my daughter Emily a giant white teddy bear, and it became our ritual for every truck trip. After she died, it was the only thing I couldn’t let go. Last week, something inside it cracked.
I used to think grief came with sirens and shouting. Mine came with mileage, diesel, and coffee breath.
Ten years ago, I was broke, new to trucking, and desperate to impress my daughter. Emily was turning four and wanted a bear “as big as me.” On a dusty flea market lot outside Dayton, I found him—a huge white teddy, one eye slightly crooked.
The seller, Linda, saw my wallet and said, “Ten bucks, dad price.”
Emily hugged him and named him Snow. Like he was her whole world. And, somehow, mine too.
Snow became our ritual. Every long haul, Emily carried him to my truck, arms straining, and demanded, “Buckle him in.” I did, seatbelt across his belly.
I was gone. She was tired. Our conversations shrank to short exchanges, almost invoices. At night, the hum of the cab and that lopsided face kept loneliness from fully landing. Returning home, Emily would sprint down the driveway, snatch Snow, and grin. “See? He protected you.” I’d tap his head. “Good job, partner.”
Even as she grew, she still packed him for me, calling it dumb. Her mom, Sarah, never liked Snow in the cab—said it made me childish. But truth was, I needed anything that felt like home.
Sarah and I didn’t fight. We wore out. Divorce came when Emily was twelve. But she still handed me Snow before every trip, quietly, like a truce. Sometimes Sarah watched from the porch and said nothing at all.
Then cancer arrived, the year Emily turned thirteen. First bruises, then fatigue, hospital ceilings, needles. Emily hated pity. She joked with the nurses, named her IV pole “R2-Drip2,” and demanded Snow on every visit.
One late night, when hallway lights buzzed and I rubbed her hand, she whispered, “Promise you’ll keep driving.”
I argued. She stared. Insisted.
“Promise, Dad.”
I promised.
Two weeks later, she was gone. That promise felt like a chain tightening around my ribs.
After the funeral, I did something ugly.
I bagged up Emily’s things like they were contaminated—clothes, drawings, even her glitter pens. I told myself I needed air. Sarah walked in and saw the black bags.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Surviving,” I snapped.
I told people I was fine, and they believed me because I could still laugh.
Her face went pale. “You’re throwing her away,” she said. I yelled. She left without crying, which somehow hurt worse.
The only thing I couldn’t touch was Snow. He didn’t smell like Emily. He lived on a shelf, then back in the truck, buckled in, waiting.
Driving gave my hands a job and my mind an escape. Years blurred—routes, rest stops, motel curtains, and coffee cups.
I told people I was fine. They believed me because I could still laugh.
