When I walked into a motorcycle clubhouse clutching $500 in cash, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was thinking like a terrified mother.
My daughter was being stalked. The police said their hands were tied. Lawyers told me the same thing. And fear had pushed me to a breaking point.
“I need help,” I said to the man behind the bar. “A man is following my daughter. Everywhere. And no one will stop him.”
The room went quiet.
I didn’t belong there — a middle-aged mom in work clothes surrounded by leather, tattoos, and men who looked intimidating at first glance. I expected to be laughed out, or worse.
Instead, the man looked at me calmly and said, “Sit down. Tell us what’s happening.”
That was the first surprise.
When the System Fails
My daughter Emma was nineteen. Her stalker was nearly twice her age. He showed up at her college. Outside her work. Near our home. He sent messages. Left gifts. And one night, he crossed a line no parent ever forgets — leaving a photo of her asleep in her bedroom.
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