I’ve been driving trucks for eight years—long highways, sudden detours, unpredictable weather. It’s more than a job; it’s freedom. But back home, my family doesn’t see it that way.
My mom thinks it’s a phase. My sister suggests I do something “more feminine.” My dad mutters, “Not very ladylike.” It’s exhausting. They don’t see my pride, my independence.
The worst was last Thanksgiving when my uncle joked, “Wouldn’t you rather have a husband drive you around?” Everyone laughed. I didn’t.
Weeks later, on a quiet mountain road, I spotted a soaked, shivering woman—Mara. She had lost her way hiking in a storm.
I pulled over, offered her warmth and a seat in my cab. We talked for hours about families who don’t understand us, about carving our own paths.
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