I Picked up a Hitchhiker Who Said He Was Going to See His Dying Father for the Last Time, but When I Learned the Real Reason for His Trip, I Decided to Teach Him a Lesson – Story of the Day

When I stopped my car for a young man holding a sign that read, "Need a ride. Dad's dying," I thought I was doing something good. But when his phone lit up with a message that revealed the truth, I realized he'd been lying the whole time. What I did next taught him an unforgettable lesson.

The highway stretched out like a gray ribbon under the late afternoon sun, and I was maybe two hours from home when I saw him.

A kid who couldn't have been more than 20, standing next to a beat-up sedan with its hood propped open. He held a cardboard sign that made my chest tighten: "Need a ride. Dad's dying."

I should've kept driving. That's what I told myself as my foot eased off the gas. That's what any sensible person would do these days. But then my eyes drifted to the photo taped to my dashboard, the one of my son, Adam, grinning in his baseball uniform, and my hands made the decision before my brain could catch up.

I pulled over.

The kid jogged up to my window, breathless and grateful. Up close, he looked even younger. Sandy hair, nervous eyes, a backpack slung over one shoulder.

"Hey, man, thanks for stopping," he said. "I've been out here for over an hour. Car just died on me."

"Where are you headed?" I asked.

"Pinewood. It's about a hundred miles north. My dad's in the hospital there." His voice cracked just enough to sound genuine. "They said I should get there soon. You know, before..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.

I unlocked the passenger door. "Get in."

He tossed his backpack in the back and climbed in beside me, relief washing over his face. "I'm Kyle. Really, I can't thank you enough."

"Sean," I said, pulling back onto the highway.

The kid settled into his seat, checking his phone immediately. I noticed his leg bouncing, that restless energy young people have when they're anxious. Or maybe when they're lying.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Yeah, just... you know, worried about my old man." He ran a hand through his hair. "How far is Pinewood from here?"

"An hour and a half. Maybe two, depending on traffic."

"I should make it then." He said it more to himself than to me.

I glanced over at him. "What happened to your dad? If you don't mind me asking."

Kyle's eyes flickered toward me, then away. "Heart attack. Massive one. They got him stabilized, but..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah. Me too."

For a while, we drove in silence. The radio played low, some classic rock station I'd had on all morning. Kyle fidgeted with his phone, checking it every few seconds like he was expecting something.

"You like this stuff?" I asked, nodding toward the radio.

He looked up. "Yeah, actually. My... my dad used to play a lot of the old stuff when I was a kid."

"Mine too," I said, though the words came out heavier than I meant them to. "My son loved these songs."

Kyle tilted his head. "Loved? He doesn't anymore?"

I swallowed hard and kept my eyes on the road. "Used to. Yeah."

He didn't push, and I was grateful for that. But the silence that followed felt different... and heavy.

His phone buzzed again. Then again. Kyle glanced at the screen and quickly silenced it.

"Hospital?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, too fast. "They keep calling with updates."

He answered the next call in a hushed tone, turning slightly toward the window. "I'm on my way... hold on... yeah, me too..."

The way he said it — soft and intimate — didn't sound like he was talking to a nurse. It sounded as if he was talking to someone else.

I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

"So when's the last time you saw your dad?" I asked after he hung up.

Kyle hesitated. "It's been a while. Five years, maybe."

"That's rough. Must be hard, being apart that long."

"Yeah." He paused. "Actually, I saw him a couple of months ago. Just for a weekend."

I glanced over at him. "Thought you said five years?"

His face flushed. "I mean, five years since I lived with him. But yeah, we've, uh, stayed in touch."

He was lying. I could see it in the way his jaw tensed, the way he couldn't hold my gaze. But I didn't say anything. Not yet.

Something about this kid was getting under my skin. Maybe it was the way he kept checking his phone. Maybe it was the contradictions in his story. Or maybe it was just that he reminded me too much of Adam at that age. Cocky. Careless. Convinced the world revolved around him.

"Let's grab some coffee," I said. "There's a diner up ahead."

"I really should keep moving," Kyle said, his voice tight with urgency.

"It'll be quick. Five minutes. You'll want the caffeine when you get to the hospital. Trust me."

The diner was one of those roadside places that looked like it hadn't changed since the '80s. Red vinyl booths, checkered floors, a jukebox in the corner that probably didn't work. We slid into a booth by the window, and a waitress with tired eyes brought us menus.

"Just coffee for me," I said.

"Same," Kyle added. "And maybe one of those bear claws."

The waitress nodded and shuffled off. Kyle's phone buzzed again on the table between us. He ignored it this time, but I could see the name on the screen: Ashley.

"Girlfriend?" I asked.

He blinked. "What?"

"The calls. Girlfriend?"

"Oh. No, that's... that's my cousin. She's at the hospital too."

I nodded slowly. "Right."

Kyle's eyes darted to the clock on the wall, then back to his phone. He was wound tight as a spring, ready to bolt any second.

"You seem pretty anxious," I said, stirring sugar into my coffee.

"Wouldn't you be? If your dad was dying?"

"I suppose so." I took a sip. "What does your dad do? For work, I mean."

Kyle blinked. "He's... he was a mechanic. Worked on cars his whole life."

"Was? I thought you said he's still alive."

"Is. I meant he is alive." Kyle's hand shook slightly as he reached for his coffee. "I'm just all over the place right now."

I watched him carefully. The way he couldn't sit still. The way his story kept shifting. Something was off, and the more we talked, the more obvious it became.

Kyle excused himself to use the restroom, leaving his phone face-up on the table. I wasn't trying to snoop. I really wasn't. But when it lit up with a new message, I couldn't help but see it. A text message… from Ashley:

"Can't wait to see you, baby… ❤️ Hurry up!"

My jaw clenched. I just stared at that message, feeling something hot and sharp twist in my chest.

For a split second, I was back in my living room five years ago, standing across from Adam, both of us yelling. He'd lied about where he'd been that weekend. Lied straight to my face. And I'd been so angry, so hurt, that I couldn't see past it.

"You ready to go?"

Kyle's voice snapped me back to the present. He was holding a white pastry box and a bunch of cheap flowers from the gas station next door.

"For your dad?" I asked, forcing a smile.

"Yeah. Thought it might cheer him up."

"That's thoughtful."

We got back in the car, and I started driving again. But this time, I wasn't heading north.

"What about you?" Kyle asked. "You got kids?"

"I did." My voice came out flat. "A son."

"Did?"

I didn't answer.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled off the main highway onto a narrow side road. The pavement turned to gravel, and the trees closed in around us.

"Where are we going?" Kyle asked, his voice tight.

"Shortcut," I said. "Gets us there faster."

"This doesn't look like a shortcut."

"Trust me."

But a few miles in, I let the car slow to a crawl, then eased it onto the shoulder. I popped the hood and got out.

"What's wrong?" Kyle asked, climbing out after me.

"Engine's overheating," I said, staring down at the perfectly fine engine. "Radiator's probably low. Can you grab that jug of water from the trunk?"

Kyle sighed but did as I asked. He handed me the jug, and I made a show of pouring it in, taking my time.

"How long is this going to take?" he asked, checking his phone.

"Hard to say. Could be 10 minutes. Could be an hour."

"An hour?" His voice climbed. "I don't have an hour."

"Well, unless you know how to fix an alternator, we're stuck."

His hands balled into fists. "This is unbelievable."

"Here," I said, handing him a rag. "Hold this while I check the belts."

He took it, grease smearing across his fingers. His nice shirt, the one he'd probably picked out to impress his girlfriend, was getting dirty. And judging by the way his jaw twitched, he was barely holding it together.

"I really need to be somewhere," he said through gritted teeth.

"We all need to be somewhere," I replied evenly.

"No, you don't understand. I have to be there by six. It's important."

"More important than your dying father?" I asked, not looking up from the engine.

That shut him up.

Another 45 minutes passed. Kyle paced by the side of the road, his phone clutched in his hand, his frustration radiating off him in waves. Finally, I slammed the hood shut.

"Think that'll do it," I said.

"Thank God." He practically dove back into the car.

I got in, started the engine, and turned back onto the road. But instead of heading north, I headed east.

"Wait," Kyle said, looking around. "This isn't the way to Pinewood."

"I know."

"Then where are we going?"

I didn't answer. I just kept driving until the trees gave way to open fields, and then to a wrought-iron gate with the words "Lakeview Cemetery" arched across the top.

Kyle's face went pale. "What are you doing?"

I parked the car and got out. "Come on."

"I'm not going in there."

"Yes, you are."

There was something in my voice that made him follow. We walked through rows of headstones until I stopped in front of a simple granite marker. The name carved into it made my throat close up every time I read it:

In loving memory of...

Adam.

Beloved Son.

Gone Too Soon.

I crouched down and placed one of Kyle's flowers on the grave. He stood a few feet back, hands shoved in his pockets, his face unreadable.

"This is my son," I said quietly. "He died five years ago. Car accident."

Kyle didn't say anything.

"He was 19. Thought he knew everything. Assumed he was invincible." I stood up, brushing the dirt off my hands. "The last time I saw him, we had a fight. He'd lied to me about something stupid, and I called him out on it. We yelled at each other, and he stormed out. Two hours later, the hospital called."

My voice broke, but I pushed through.

"I never got to tell him I was sorry. Never got to tell him I loved him. That fight was the last conversation we ever had."

Kyle's eyes were shining now. "I'm sorry… I didn't…"

"I know what you're doing," I said, turning to face him. "I saw the text from Ashley. Your dad's not dying. He's already dead, isn't he?"

Kyle's face crumpled. "Yeah. He died when I was 12."

"And you used his memory to get a free ride to see your girlfriend."

"I just…" His voice cracked. "I didn't know what else to do. She's flying to Paris tonight, and I thought…"

"You thought lying about your dying father was the way to go?"

Kyle looked down at his greasy hands. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize to me," I said. "Apologize to him."

I walked back to the car, leaving Kyle alone with his guilt.

When he finally came back, his eyes were red. We drove in silence for a while before I pulled into my driveway. My house was small, neat, the kind of place that felt too quiet most days.

"Come inside," I said.

Kyle followed me in. I led him to the laundry room and pulled out one of Adam's old shirts, a blue flannel he used to wear on weekends.

"Your shirt's ruined," I said, handing it to him. "Take this."

He held it like it was made of glass. "I can't…"

"Yes, you can."

While he changed, I stood in the hallway, staring at the wall of photos. Adam as a toddler, at his high school graduation, and him laughing at some joke I couldn't remember anymore.

Kyle emerged from the bathroom, the flannel hanging loose on his frame. He stopped when he saw the photos.

"Is that him?" he asked softly.

"Yeah."

"He looks happy."

Kyle moved closer to the wall, studying each photo as if he were trying to memorize them. Then he noticed something on the small table by the door. An old answering machine — the kind nobody uses anymore. The red light blinked: one saved message.

"You still have one of these?" he asked.

"Just that one message," I said quietly. "I can't bring myself to delete it."

Kyle looked at me, and I nodded. He pressed play.

Adam's voice filled the hallway, young and alive. "Hey, Dad. I know you're probably still mad, but I just wanted to say I'm sorry about earlier. I shouldn't have lied. I'll be home soon and we can talk, okay? Love you."

The message ended with a beep. Kyle's hand was covering his mouth.

"That was the day," I said. "He left that message 20 minutes before the accident."

"Does it ever stop hurting?" Kyle asked from behind me.

"No," I said. "But you learn to carry it."

He looked at the photos, then down at the shirt he was wearing. "I've been an idiot."

"Yeah. You have."

"My mom," he said quietly. "She's been calling me for weeks. I kept blowing her off because I was too busy, too wrapped up in my own life. And now I'm wearing a dead kid's shirt because I lied about my own dead father."

I turned to face him. "So what are you going to do about it?"

He pulled out his phone and stared at it for a long moment. Then he dialed.

"Mom?" His voice was small. "Yeah, it's me. I know it's been a while. I just... I wanted to call. I want to come home for a bit. Just to visit."

I heard a woman's voice on the other end, tearful and relieved. Kyle nodded, wiping at his eyes.

"Okay. Yeah. I'll be there soon. I love you, too."

He hung up and looked at me. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," I said. "You've got another call to make."

He pulled up Ashley's number and typed out a message: "I'm sorry. I can't make it. I'll explain later."

His phone exploded with angry texts and calls, but he silenced it and shoved it in his pocket.

"She's going to hate me," he said.

"Maybe. But your mom won't."

I drove him to the bus station. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Kyle grabbed his backpack and stood by the car door for a moment.

"I'm sorry," he said. "About Adam."

"Me too."

He nodded and walked toward the station. I watched him buy a ticket for Oakville, watched him board the bus, and watched the bus pull away.

As I drove home, the radio played one of Adam's favorite songs. I didn't change it. I just let it fill the car… and the empty spaces.

Funny how one wrong turn can get you to the right place. Kid's on the way home. Me too, maybe.

And here's the thing I wish I'd understood sooner: Life doesn't give us second chances. It doesn't wait for us to figure things out or get our priorities straight. The people we love won't always be there tomorrow. So if you've got someone who matters, someone you've been taking for granted or pushing away, stop. Call them. Tell them you love them. Don't waste another second.

Don't make the same mistake I did.