Forty-seven days. That’s how long my son, Jake, lay in a coma after being hit by a motorcycle. And for forty-seven days, the man who hit him — a biker named Marcus — sat by his hospital bed every single day.
When it first happened, all I could feel was anger. My twelve-year-old boy had been crossing the street, chasing a basketball, when the accident occurred. The police said it wasn’t the biker’s fault — no speeding, no drinking, no recklessness. They said Jake ran into the street. But none of that mattered to me. My son was in a hospital bed, and someone had to blame.
Then I met Marcus.
The first time I saw him, he was sitting beside Jake’s bed, reading Harry Potter out loud — Jake’s favorite book. “Who are you?” I snapped.
He stood slowly. “My name’s Marcus,” he said softly. “I’m the one who hit your son.”
Rage took over. I lunged at him. Security pulled me away before it got worse. But the next day, Marcus came back. And the next.
At first, I wanted him gone. I didn’t understand why he kept showing up. My wife, Sarah, did. “He’s not here out of guilt,” she said through tears. “He’s here because he cares.”
Continue reading on next page…