I’ve been a biker for nearly three decades. Fifty-three years old, never married, no kids, always figured fatherhood just wasn’t in the cards. Then I met Lily — and everything I thought I knew about life changed.
It started with a call from a woman named Jennifer, her voice trembling. Her six-year-old daughter had a brain tumor and only a couple of months left. “She loves motorcycles,” Jennifer said. “She wants a real biker to take her for a ride before she gets too sick.”
Our club volunteered instantly. But Jennifer showed Lily the photos, and she pointed at me. “He looks like he gives good hugs,” she said.
So I showed up at their little house with my Harley shining, a pink helmet covered in butterflies under my arm, ready to take a brave little girl for her first ride. But when I asked if she was ready, Lily shook her head.
“Can we just pretend instead?” she whispered. “My head hurts too much. Can you be my daddy for one day? I never had one.”
That sentence hit harder than any crash I’ve ever taken. Her mother stood in the doorway, crying. I swallowed hard and said, “Sure, sweetheart. What do daddies and daughters do?”
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