I bought my daughter Emily a giant white teddy bear, and it became our ritual for every truck trip. After she died, it was the only thing I couldn’t let go. Last week, something inside it cracked.I used to think grief came with sirens and shouting. Mine came with mileage and coffee breath.Ten years ago I was broke, new to trucking, and desperate to impress my daughter, Emily. She was turning four and wanted a bear “as big as me.” On a dusty flea market lot outside Dayton, I found a huge white teddy with one eye slightly higher.The seller, Linda, saw my wallet and said, “Ten bucks, dad price.” Emily hugged it and named him Snow. Like he was my whole world, too.

Emily turned Snow into a ritual. Every time I left for a long haul, she carried him to my truck, arms straining, and ordered, “Buckle him in.” I did, seatbelt across his belly.At night the cab hummed, and that lopsided face kept the loneliness from fully landing. When I rolled back into town, Emily sprinted down the driveway and snatched him up. “See,” she’d say, “he protected you.” I’d tap the bear’s head and answer, “Good job, partner.”Even when she got older, she still packed him for me, calling it dumb. Her mom, Sarah, never liked the bear in the cab. She said it made me childish, like I needed a mascot to be a parent. Truth was, I needed anything that felt like home.