I've been parked here at this rest stop off I-80 for nearly an hour, engine off, just watching the semis roll in and out. The hum of the refrigeration units on some of them is a constant, almost hypnotic drone. It got me thinking, as it sometimes does, about the sheer inertia of a life. (Not in the physics sense, although there's an analogy there, isn't there? An object in motion tending to stay in motion.) My old man, he drove. My grandfather, before him, drove too. It was just… what we did. The family business, so to speak, even without a formal company name or a sign on the door. You learn to back up a trailer before you can legally buy a beer, practically. There was never a grand declaration, no ceremonial passing of the keys. It was more a gradual absorption. Summers spent riding shotgun, the smell of diesel and stale coffee becoming as familiar as my own cologne. The way dad would point out landmarks, explain the nuances of a route, the best places to grab a greasy spoon breakfast. It wasn’t instruction, not overtly. It was simply… exposure. And then, one day, you’re behind the wheel of your own rig, hauling freight across state lines, repeating the exact patterns you witnessed for decades. It felt less like a choice and more like the inevitable outcome of a predetermined trajectory. A river finding its path of least resistance, perhaps. I remember once, briefly, entertaining the notion of something different. High school, I think it was. My guidance counselor, a well-meaning woman named Ms. Jenkins, suggested college. Something with computers, she’d said. “The future, Frank.” I even filled out a preliminary application for a state school. But the thought of it—the tuition, the relocation, the utter unfamiliarity of it all—felt like trying to turn a supertanker on a dime. The path I was on was already so clearly defined, so well-worn. My father never pressured me, not explicitly. But the occasional, "Your grandfather would've been proud of that backing job, son," or "You got good road sense, just like your uncle," those comments carried a certain weight. They reinforced the established order, a quiet affirmation of the expected. Now, sitting here, the sun setting and casting long shadows from the trailers, I observe this sentiment within myself. It’s not regret, precisely. Regret implies a conscious choice was actively rejected. This is more of a dispassionate examination of the circumstances. A recognition that the options, while technically present, felt… unavailable, somehow. Like observing a branching path from a great distance, understanding its existence, but having no accessible means to divert. I drove for fifty years. Made a good living. Raised a family in a nice suburban house with a two-car garage. Kept the lawn neat, just like everyone else on the block. The neighbors probably assume I'm content, a man who lived a full, productive life doing what he loved. And maybe I was, in my own way. But the question, the persistent, quiet hum of it, remains: was it ever *my* choice, or simply the path that required the least effort to stay on? It’s a distinction that often feels... meaningless, in the end. But it persists.