The biker who put my son in the hospital showed up again today—
and I thought I’d never forgive him.
Forty-seven days. That’s how long my twelve-year-old boy, Jake, lay in a coma after being hit while chasing his basketball into the street. Forty-seven days of machines, silence, and waiting.
The police told us the rider wasn’t speeding or drunk. They said Jake ran into the road, that the man stayed, called 911, and did CPR until help arrived.
But none of that mattered. My boy was still in that hospital bed, and someone on a motorcycle had hit him.
Then one morning, I walked into Jake’s room and froze.
A tall man with a beard and a leather vest was sitting beside my son, reading Harry Potter out loud.
“Who are you?” I snapped.
He stood slowly. “My name’s Marcus,” he said. “I’m the one who hit your son.”
Rage took over. I lunged at him before security pulled me away.
But the next day, Marcus came back. And the day after that.
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