The day I called the hotel to confirm my son’s prom accessibility and got, “Wheelchair users must enter through the service door,” something inside me snapped.
Seventeen years of watching Jake fight for dignity. Doorways too narrow. Ramps too steep. People’s expectations too low. He never complained—not about muscular dystrophy, not about classmates who avoided him, not even the girl who only agreed to be his prom date because her mom “encouraged” her.
But telling him to enter his senior prom through a kitchen door? That was humiliation I couldn’t accept.
So I vented on social media. I posted about the historic hotel’s inaccessibility and Jake’s right to a special night. I expected nothing. Instead, my post went viral overnight—1,000 shares later, it reached the one group I’d warned Jake to avoid for years: the local biker club.
Three days before prom, our doorbell rang. Outside, a hundred leather-clad bikers lined our street. Leading them was a giant man with a gray beard, tattoos up his arms, and a leather vest—Crusher, president of the Iron Horsemen. “You Angela Mitchell? Mother of Jake?” he asked.
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