“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.