Roads Not Taken: A Father’s Choice and a Family’s Fate

“Les, please, don’t go tonight. I just—something feels wrong. Please?”

Kaitlyn’s hand trembled as she gripped my shirt, her blue eyes wide and wet with worry. The clock glowed 9:47 PM over her shoulder. Our son, Ethan, was finally asleep in his room, and the baby that stretched Kaitlyn’s belly was due any day now. I could hear the rain tapping out an anxious rhythm on the roof. I cupped her face, trying to steady her—steady both of us.

“I can’t call out now, Kait. Todd already bailed on the shift. This delivery’s double overtime. We need it.”

She shook her head, pressing her lips together. “What if something happens? Les, please. Just this once, listen to me.”

I almost said yes. God, I wanted to. But the bills on the kitchen table, the eviction notice tucked under the salt shaker, and the ultrasound photo on the fridge—all those things screamed louder than her voice. I kissed her forehead, the scent of her shampoo grounding me. “I’ll be careful. I promise. I’ll call from the road.”

She watched me pack my thermos and old jacket, her eyes never leaving me. The front door felt heavier than usual as I pulled it shut against the wind.

My rig—an ’06 Peterbilt—sat waiting in the lot, engine rumbling like a caged animal. I never liked driving at night on I-80, especially in the rain, but it was good money, and Kaitlyn was right: every penny counted. I called my dispatcher, Rick, as I climbed in. “On my way. Tell the client to expect delivery by sunrise.”

The miles rolled under my wheels, headlights cutting through sheets of rain. I kept replaying Kaitlyn’s words. What if something happens? I tried to laugh it off. Just nerves. She was always a little superstitious when she was pregnant.

But a few hours in, as the wipers squeaked and a wall of fog swallowed the road, I felt her fear spreading through me. I turned up the radio to drown it out, but every song seemed to echo, Don’t go, don’t go.

At 2:16 AM, I pulled over at a rest stop just outside Grand Island. My phone buzzed—a text from Kaitlyn: “Can’t sleep. Call me when you can. Love you.”

I almost turned back. Almost. But the thought of losing the bonus money, of facing Kaitlyn and Ethan with nothing, made me press on.

It happened so fast. A deer darted out, headlights flared in my rearview, and then—an SUV skidded out of nowhere, spinning wild on the slick asphalt. I jerked the wheel, horn blaring, bracing for impact. Metal screamed. Glass shattered. The world flipped upside down.

When I woke, everything hurt. My hands were sticky with blood, and the world was spinning. I heard a child crying—a sound I’ll never forget. I crawled from the cab, dazed, and saw the SUV, crumpled, smoke seeping from its hood. I ran, limping, to the wreck. The driver—a young woman—was slumped over the wheel, unconscious. In the backseat, a little boy shrieked, trapped by his car seat.

My mind split in two: part of me terrified, part of me moving on instinct. I wrenched open the door, ignoring the pain in my leg, and pulled the boy free just as flames licked the dashboard. I carried him away, screaming for help. Somewhere, sirens wailed in the distance.

I stayed by the roadside, clutching the boy, until paramedics arrived. The woman survived, but just barely. They said my quick thinking saved them both. I watched the medics wheel her away, guilt gnawing at my insides. If I’d listened to Kaitlyn, none of this would have happened. What if I’d been killed? What if someone else had died?

At the hospital, my leg was stitched up. The police took my statement. Insurance forms, accident reports, calls from the company—everything blurred together. But the worst part was calling Kaitlyn. Her scream on the other end of the phone split me open. She came as soon as she could, Ethan in tow, her face pale and drawn. She hugged me so tight I thought my ribs would crack.

“Why didn’t you listen?” she sobbed. “Why?”

I had no answer. I just held her and let the tears come.

The weeks that followed were hell. The company suspended me while the investigation played out. The insurance money barely covered the damages. We had to dip into the tiny savings we’d scraped together for the baby. I watched Kaitlyn struggle under the weight of worry and resentment, watched Ethan grow quieter, watched myself shrink with shame.

But something else happened, too. The family from the accident reached out. They wanted to thank me. The boy—I learned his name was Lucas—sent me a drawing of a truck and a stick figure with a superhero cape. I hung it on the fridge, next to the ultrasound photo, as a reminder that sometimes doing the wrong thing can lead to something right.

Still, the central question haunts me every night: did I make the right choice? Was the money worth risking everything? Did I let my family down by trying to save us?

Now, with our daughter sleeping sweetly in Kaitlyn’s arms, I find myself staring at the rain on the window, wondering—how do you know when to listen to fear, and when to push through it? Would you have done anything different if you were in my shoes?