About ten years ago, I was just starting out as a long-distance truck driver. My salary was unstable, my expenses were constant, and the most important day of my life was looming ahead: my daughter Emily’s fourth birthday.
I couldn’t afford expensive toys from the shop, but I wasn’t going to come home empty-handed either. That day, I stopped by a flea market — just to ‘have a look,’ hoping that luck would smile on me.
And it did. On one of the tables lay a large white teddy bear. Clean, soft, with kind eyes — the kind that immediately seems like ‘the one.’ I took it without hesitation.
When I gave Emily the gift, it was as if she had received the whole world. She hugged the bear to her chest, never letting go for a moment, and carried it around the house with her all evening.
She fell asleep hugging it.
She played with it in the morning and in the afternoon.
She sat it next to her at the table, like a real guest.
The toy quickly became her most beloved treasure. And then something happened that turned an ordinary teddy bear into a part of our family history.
Every time I was about to go on a trip, Emily would bring it to me, hug it tightly and say:
‘Take it with you, Dad. It will protect you on the road.’
And I did. That’s how it became a tradition: the bear took its place in the passenger seat of my truck. We travelled almost the entire country together — roads, parking lots, sunrises on the motorway and endless kilometres accompanied by the sound of tyres.
When I returned home, Emily greeted me with joy and unwavering confidence, as if that was how things should be:
‘See, Dad, he protected you. And he reminded you of me so you wouldn’t be lonely.’
Years passed. Emily grew up, her interests changed, and children’s games faded into the background. The bear no longer lived on her bed all the time, but something of our tradition remained. Sometimes I still put him in the cab — more out of habit than necessity.
Emily laughed at me — not maliciously, but warmly, kindly. And I liked that laugh. It sounded like home.
For her, it was a childhood story.
For me, it was a thread connecting me to the brightest years of my life.
For both of us, it was a small family symbol.
When Emily turned fourteen, she fell seriously ill. The disease proved stronger, and one day she was gone.
Everything inside me seemed to fall apart. I couldn’t believe that the world continued to exist when my own world had disappeared. After the funeral, I walked around the house like a shadow, not knowing what to do next or why I should even get up in the morning.
Over time, I returned to work. Not because it became easier, but because I needed to leave the house at least sometimes and have some direction, even if it was just on the road.
Sometimes a person keeps moving not out of strength, but out of the need not to stop completely.
One morning, I was getting ready for a trip and automatically glanced at the passenger seat. Usually, the bear was already waiting there. But that day, the seat was empty.
I was confused, as if I had noticed the loss of something much greater than a toy. I found the bear, took it with me and carefully placed it next to me. It was important to me that it was back in the cab — as a reminder that love does not disappear immediately, even if a person is gone.
And at that very moment, I heard a dry crack.
The sound was as if something had broken inside. I turned the bear over and noticed an uneven seam on its back — the fabric had come apart slightly, as if it had been opened and sewn back together at some point.
My heart began to beat faster. I carefully pulled the seam apart and looked inside.
Inside was an envelope.
Next to it was a small dictaphone.
My hands felt heavy as lead. I turned on the dictaphone, and a voice rang out in the truck’s cabin, a voice I would have given anything to hear again.
A wave rose inside me — not anger, not fear, but a stunning feeling: as if Emily had prepared something important for me and hidden it where I would definitely find it.
I whispered into the void, not knowing who I was addressing — a memory, the sky, or this little recording:
‘Emily… why did you hide this from me?’
I didn’t press ‘play’ right away.
The voice recorder lay in my palm — small, grey, almost weightless. And inside it was a whole world that I was afraid to open.
The cab was filled with the silence of the morning. The engine was not running yet. Outside the window, the car park was slowly waking up — doors were slamming, someone was starting their engine, couplings were clanking.
I pressed the button.
First, there was a rustle.
Then a soft chuckle.
And her voice.
Slightly older than in my last memories. Thin, but already with teenage notes.
‘Hi, Dad… If you’re listening to this, it means you took Mr Berry with you again.’
I closed my eyes.
Mr Berry.
I had almost forgotten that the bear had a name.
“I don’t know when you’ll find this. Maybe in a hundred years. Maybe never. But if everything turned out the way I think it did… then I’m not around.
Pause. Deep breath.
“And you’re probably sitting in the cab again. Looking at the road as if it’s to blame for everything.
My breath caught in my throat.
She knew.
“Dad, if you’re crying, it’s okay. Just don’t pretend you’re “fine”. You always did that. Even when I was scared, you would say, “Everything’s under control”.
Her voice trembled slightly.
‘But not everything has to be under control. Sometimes you just have to live.’
I lowered my head onto the steering wheel.
The years, the kilometres, the noise of the road — everything seemed to disappear. Only that voice remained.
‘I asked Aunt Meg to help me hide this. She said you would definitely find it. Because you never leave Mr Berry at home for long.’
A light chuckle.
‘I know you think he was protecting you. But you were protecting us. Always.’
Tears fell onto my hands.
‘If I’m gone, Dad… please don’t stop driving. You’re not meant to sit still. The road is part of you. And you know what? When you drive, it feels like you’re moving forward. Which means you’re alive.’
Pause.
Too long.
I heard her swallow.
‘And one more thing… there’s a letter in the envelope. Don’t open it right away. Listen to me first.’
I exhaled sharply.
“You’re not alone. You never have been. I’m with you in every sunrise you see on the road. In every coffee at the petrol station. In every kilometre. Just… look up and look at the sky. I’ll be there. Okay?
A rustle.
‘I love you, Dad. Thank you for always taking the bear with you.’
A click.
Silence.
I sat motionless. Not because I couldn’t move. But because if I moved, everything might disappear.
A few minutes later, I remembered the envelope.
It was neatly sealed. Her handwriting was on it. No longer childish. Confident.
‘To Dad. When things get especially hard.’
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph. The two of us by the truck. She was about ten years old, wearing a baseball cap that was too big for her, and holding that same teddy bear under her arm.
On the back was a short note:
“If you ever want to sell the truck, don’t do it right away. First, give someone a ride who needs it as much as I once did. The road heals. You taught me that yourself.”
Under the photo was a folded piece of paper.
I unfolded it.
It was a list.
Neatly numbered items.
Drive to the ocean and watch the sunrise.
Help someone on the road, even if it takes time.
Don’t turn down invitations for coffee.
Learn to laugh again.
Sometimes leave the passenger seat empty — for new stories.
I stared at the last point for a long time.
Empty.
I used to be afraid of that empty space.
Now I understand — it’s not about loss. It’s about opportunity.
I started the engine.
The sound of the motor no longer seemed foreign. It sounded like an extension of my breathing.
I carefully placed Mr Berry in the seat.
‘Let’s go,’ I said quietly. ‘We still have to get to the ocean.’
And for the first time since the day she passed away, the road ahead didn’t seem like an endless void.
It was a journey.
And I was still moving.
Since that day, I have understood one simple thing: sometimes the most precious messages are not obvious. They are hidden in the little things we carry with us for years — in habits, in family symbols, in a toy on the passenger seat.
And even when life seems unbearable, love finds a way to say, ‘I’m here.’ Quietly. Through the seam on the back of a teddy bear. But clearly enough for a person to take a breath and continue on their way.
