I must have been around five, maybe six, when I went on a drive with my dad in his pickup truck. I don’t remember exactly where we were going—maybe to pick up car parts or run an errand—but I do remember what happened next.
It was the early 1970s, back when no one thought twice about kids riding in cars without seat belts, much less car seats. As we drove down the road, I was holding onto the truck door. What I didn’t realize was that it wasn’t properly closed—and my dad hadn’t thought to lock it.
Then, suddenly—before I even knew what was happening—the door swung open.
And I fell out.
The truck was still moving when I hit the ground.
I remember the panic in my dad’s face as he slammed on the brakes, jumped out, and scooped me up. He put me back in the truck, making sure I was secure this time. And then… we never spoke about it again.
But here’s the thing—I wasn’t hurt. Not a scratch, not a bruise, nothing. At least, nothing that I remember.
Another moment where I should have been seriously injured—or worse—but I wasn’t. Another miracle.
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