Life Experiences

1. I consider it cheating and pick partners who do not indulge in porn. My boyfriend knows this boundary and accepts it. I’ll send him sexy pictures if he has to travel but I’ve always made my standards clear. He knows he has it too good at home that he’s often said he won’t jeopardize this relationship. And he knows I won’t hesitate to walk away if he breaks my trust.

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Disclaimer: This story is adapted from a public online account. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the individual’s privacy.

 

I moved to the U.S. legally when I was just a baby. Grew up here. Went to school here. Built a life. My parents eventually became citizens, but I never felt rushed to do the same. They said they were naturalizing for tax reasons. I figured, “I have my green card, I’m good.”

I was wrong.

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By day, I look like the person you bring in when everything’s on fire. I’m the one who shows up early, hits targets, remembers birthdays, and answers emails with exclamation points so you know I’m fine. I have the job title that reassures my parents and a partner who says I look younger than my age. If you knew me only from daylight hours, you’d think I’d cracked some adulting cheat code.

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I remember the way the sky looked that evening—bruised and swollen with clouds that never broke. It had been hot all day, but the wind had picked up as the sun fell behind the barracks. You’d think it would feel different, knowing you wouldn’t see another sunrise. But time doesn’t bend the way you expect it to. It just keeps moving forward, minute by minute, like any other day. And that’s the strangest part.

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I want to tell you something I’ve never said out loud.

I’m 55 years old, and I’ve never been in a romantic relationship. Not once. Not a high school sweetheart, not a college fling, not even a whirlwind dating-app romance that crashed and burned in a few weeks. Nothing.

And it wasn’t because I didn’t want love. I did. I still do.

But I waited.

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I’m sixteen, which in Korea means I’m almost a finished product.

That’s how it feels, anyway. By your third year of high school, people start talking about your “specs”—test scores, clubs, volunteer hours—and your face like they’re items on the same checklist. At cram school, the girls trade math tips and moisturizer samples. On the group chat, we swap past exams and plastic-surgery clinic screenshots. When adults ask what I plan to do after graduation, they mean both college and whether I’ll “fix” anything. It’s said kindly, like asking if I’ve bought a new backpack.

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Seventeen years.

That’s how long I’ve been with her. High school sweethearts. We grew up together. Fell in love when we were just kids. Got married when we found out she was pregnant. I didn’t hesitate. I loved her, and I already loved the life we were starting to build. I was proud to be her husband. Proud to be his father.

And I was happy. I swear to God, I was happy.

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There’s a sound that shouldn’t mean anything. It’s just birds. Just some sparrows or finches or whatever, fluttering around outside doing what birds have always done—singing in the morning. Most people hear it and smile. They stretch, yawn, maybe make coffee. Maybe they open a window and say something like “what a beautiful day.”

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They say if you want peace and quiet, you go live in the woods. But I found it somewhere else—sitting 10 feet above the highway in a Freightliner, hauling 40,000 pounds of who-knows-what across the country.

[Read more…] about Confessions of a Long-Haul Truck Driver