I always imagined grief would be loud — chaos, shouting, something breaking. But mine came quietly, riding along empty highways and long nights. Ten years ago, I was just starting out as a truck driver, barely getting by. My daughter Emily was turning four, and all she wanted was a teddy bear “as big as me.” At a roadside market, I found one — oversized, white, a little imperfect. The woman selling it smiled at me and said, “Ten bucks. Dad discount.”
Emily hugged that bear like it was the greatest gift in the world. She named him Snow. From that day on, Snow became part of our routine. Before every trip, she’d carry him to my truck and make me buckle him in. Every single time. And I did. Even as she grew older and tried to act too cool, she never forgot. Snow still made his way into the passenger seat before every drive.....
