After two decades working as a truck driver, I believed I had seen everything on those long, deserted highways. Yet, I never thought that picking up a hitchhiker would lead to a tearful reunion, a viral expression of gratitude, and the end of my journeys on the road.

I have been driving trucks for many years. Being a woman in this line of work isn’t typical, but I chose this career knowing the difficulties it would involve.

Life often takes you down unforeseen paths. For me, that path opened up when my husband left me and our four-year-old twins, Gia and Vinnie.

My father drove trucks until he was 55. I grew up watching him leave for days at a time and returning with stories from his routes. Contrary to popular belief, this job pays well enough. It kept food on the table while I was growing up.

So, when I needed to provide for my children alone, I decided this was the best route. I obtained my commercial license and started driving. My employer even offered better benefits than my dad had, including insurance.

The drawback was that I spent weeks on the road. Fortunately, my mother stepped in to care for the children while I was away, but I missed many moments. I missed most birthday parties and family events because of my schedule.

Some things couldn’t be rescheduled, like school performances. Many times, I only saw blurry videos of my kids’ milestones. Still, this job paid the bills, and they were never left hungry. In fact, they had more than I did.

Now they are grown and no longer live at home. They call sometimes and are thankful, but my mother played a bigger role in raising them. I still carry guilt for missing their childhood many nights.

One rainy evening on a quiet stretch of highway, everything changed.

I saw a boy, around 16, standing by the roadside. His clothes looked wrinkled. He appeared exhausted, but there was something else in his eyes — like he didn’t know where to go.

I slowed down and pulled over. My company’s rules strictly prohibited picking up hitchhikers, but something urged me to stop.

“Hey, kid. Do you need a ride?” I asked through the open window. My tone was firm but kind, like I was speaking to one of my own children.

He hesitated, glancing along the empty road.

“Listen, I don’t have all day,” I said, trying to keep it casual. “It’s getting dark, and this isn’t the safest spot to stand around.”

Finally, he nodded and got in, struggling a little to get into the cab because of his height.

“Is this your first time riding in a big truck?” I inquired, noticing him fumble with the seatbelt.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, finally clicking it shut.

“My name’s Julianne,” I introduced myself. “Most people call me Jules.”

He kept staring out the window, shoulders hunched. “Alex,” he replied.

I nodded and resumed driving. We sat quietly, the engine humming in the background. After a while, I broke the silence: “Where are you headed?”

“I don’t really know,” he replied, eyes fixed outside.

“You running away from something?”

He nodded again but didn’t say more.

“Look, Alex,” I said gently, “I’ve been on these roads for 20 years. I’ve seen all kinds of people running from all sorts of things. Usually, running just makes things worse.”

He turned to me sharply. “You don’t know anything about me,” he snapped, voice cracking.

“I’m sure I don’t,” I agreed softly. “But I recognize that look in your eyes.”

He looked back out the window, and I let him sit in silence.

Ahead, there was a gas station. I glanced at the fuel gauge; it was almost on empty. I pulled into the pump area and stepped out of the truck.

“I’m going inside to pay,” I said. “Would you like anything?”

He shook his head, but his stomach growled loudly enough for us both to notice.

“Alright,” I said with a slight smile. “Nothing then.”

Inside, I collected a few sodas, chips, and two turkey sandwiches, paying for everything along with the diesel.

When I got back outside, he avoided eye contact. I fueled the truck and waited while it filled up.

“Here,” I said, handing him a sandwich. “Can’t let you go hungry.”

He caught it instinctively. “Thanks,” he whispered.

“Would you like to talk?” I asked softly after he took a few bites. “You seem like you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

He fiddled with the sandwich wrapper. “Fought with my mom,” he said quietly. “I ran away.”

“That must have been a big fight,” I commented evenly.

“She wouldn’t let me go to France with my class,” he said hurriedly. “Everyone else is going, but she said we can’t afford it.” His voice cracked again. “I hate being the poorest kid in class. She’s always saying no. It’s like she doesn’t get how much this means to me.”

I got out to put the pump hose back and checked the full tank. Then I climbed back in and resumed driving.

“Tell me about your mom,” I prompted.

“She works at a grocery store,” he muttered, bitterness in his tone. “My dad left when I was small. She’s always working and tired. She always says we don’t have enough money.”

“That sounds tough,” I said.

“Whatever,” he muttered, but I could tell he was hurting.

“My husband left when my twins were four,” I shared. “It was a long time ago, but I had to figure out how to feed us quickly.”

He looked at me with curiosity, a hint of a smile. “Is that why you’re a truck driver? I’ve never seen a woman do this before.”

I nodded. “Yes. I missed a lot with my kids. It still hurts to think about it. But they never went hungry or wanted for anything.”

“Don’t they hate you for never being there?” he asked, and I sensed he was really asking: Would it be better if my mom worked this job?

“Sometimes,” I admitted. “We had some big fights about it during their teen years. But now, they understand. Your mom’s there for you in ways money can’t buy — with her time and love. If you asked my kids, they’d probably say they’d prefer that.”

He looked away from me, lost in thought, nibbling on his sandwich.

The highway stretched ahead into the dark, with only my headlights illuminating the way. I was used to being alone on the road, but having someone else with me felt different, even in silence.

“Sometimes she cries,” Alex suddenly said. “When she thinks I’m asleep. I hear her on the phone with my aunt, talking about bills and stuff.”

I softly echoed, “That must be difficult to hear.”

“I just wanted to go on that one stupid trip,” he said, swallowing hard. “Everyone will come back with stories and pictures, and I’ll be the loser left behind.”

“You’re not a loser, Alex,” I said firmly. “Neither is your mom. You’re both trying to do your best with what you have. You already have more than many others.”

I saw him nod. After another long pause, he asked, “Can you take me to the bus stop?”

I glanced at him and saw his face was no longer lost but different — more hopeful. I smiled and turned my attention back to the road.

“No,” I replied. “I’m taking you home. I’m ahead of schedule, and I want to make sure you get there safely. You need to talk to your mom.”

“She’s going to be mad,” he groaned.

“Nah,” I said. “She’s probably going to squeeze you so tight you can’t breathe — then maybe she’ll get mad at you, too.”

He chuckled softly at that.

He gave me directions to a modest house. As soon as he stepped out, the front door swung open.

A woman ran out, calling, “Alex! Oh my God, Alex!”

She wrapped him in a tight hug, tears streaming down her face.

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

His mother, Mary, turned to me, still holding her child. “Thank you,” she said gratefully. “Thank you for bringing him back. I didn’t know what to think when I found his note. I was calling everyone, trying to find him…”

I told her, “It’s okay. I once had teenagers too.”

She looked at me with gratitude. “Please, let me make you some coffee before you go.”

“I’ll have to pass,” I said with a smile. “But how about a picture? Something to remind him to think twice before running away or hitchhiking again.”

Alex smiled at that. Mary took a picture of us with her phone and wrote down my name and company info.