My father drove a delivery truck through New Jersey for twenty-eight years.
He knew every loading dock from Newark to Trenton, every bad turn near the turnpike, and every diner where the coffee was still decent after midnight. He kept receipts in the visor, quarters in the ashtray, and a jacket behind the seat that smelled like cardboard and rain.
He missed a lot of dinners. He made every rent payment.
When people talk about New Jersey, they talk loud. My father’s life was quieter than that, but it was strong, steady, and honest.