My son Liam asked a scary biker in the hospital waiting room to hold him instead of me. I’m his mother. I’ve cradled him through every fever, every nightmare, every pain for six years. I’ll never forget that moment.
It was a long day — eleven hours at Children’s Hospital. Liam was seven, fighting leukemia for two years. We’d tried everything: chemo, radiation, experimental treatments, prayers, bargains with God. Nothing worked. That morning, the doctors said it was time. Time to take him home. Time to say goodbye.
Liam was exhausted. Sick of tests, pokes, and prods. He just wanted peace. We were waiting for his discharge when he spotted him: a massive man, six-foot-three, bearded, tattoos everywhere, leather vest patched with a Harley-Davidson logo and the American flag. Everything I had been taught to fear.
But Liam tugged my sleeve. “Mama, can I talk to that man?”
My heart sank. “Sweetie, he’s busy.”
“I need to,” Liam insisted.
The biker looked up. Eyes met. His expression softened. He knelt down to Liam’s level.
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