I always thought grief would be loud. Sirens. Shouting. Things breaking.

Instead, mine arrived quietly — in highway miles and stale coffee breath.

Ten years ago, I was broke, brand new to trucking, and trying to be the kind of dad who shows up with something magical. Emily was turning four. She wanted a teddy bear “as big as me.”

At a dusty flea market outside Dayton, I found him — giant, white, one eye stitched slightly higher than the other. The woman selling him, Linda, looked at my thin wallet and smiled.

“Ten bucks. Dad price.”

Emily wrapped her arms around that bear like she’d just been handed the moon. She named him Snow.

And Snow became our ritual.
Every time I left for a long haul, she dragged him to my truck, struggling under his size, and ordered, “Buckle him in.”

So I did. Seatbelt across his belly. Every time.

At night, when the cab hummed and loneliness tried to settle in my chest, that lopsided face kept it from landing fully. When I came home, Emily would sprint down the driveway, unbuckle him, and say, “See? He protected you.”

I’d tap Snow’s head and reply, “Good job, partner.”