The Message From My Son That Forced An Impossible Choice – The Archivist

needed moving eastward. The first year I made just enough to eat and keep gas in the truck. Slept in the cab most nights because motel rooms cut too deep into the razor-thin profit margins. Ate truck stop food and drank terrible coffee and watched the miles roll by through the windshield.

The second year, I bought a second truck with a loan I had no continue reading …