I was terrified of him. A six-foot-four, 300-pound biker with skull tattoos and a gray beard down to his chest. I called 911 three times before they finally arrested him. And all he had done was play hopscotch with my autistic daughter.
Her name is Lily. Seven years old, nonverbal, terrified of everyone but me. For five years, she wouldn’t let anyone else touch her. Until this man appeared.
It started one Tuesday at Riverside Park. I noticed him immediately—leather vest, boots, tattoos. Every mother’s nightmare. He sat on a bench, drinking coffee. I pulled Lily closer. But she… walked straight to him. Marching like she knew him.
He looked at her, then me, and said softly, “She’s okay. I won’t touch her. I know better. My grandson’s autistic, too. He’s seven.”
And then it happened. Lily, my nonverbal, terrified child, took his hand. She led him to her hopscotch squares. He jumped carefully, boots clanging, matching her twenty-step routine. For the first time in two years, she laughed—a full, deep belly laugh.
I should have been happy. Instead, I called the police. What kind of grown man plays with a little girl he doesn’t know?
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