She smiled through the pain. “Can you read me a story? Watch a movie? And tell me I’m pretty and smart like daddies do?”
That day, I became a father.
We read every book on her shelf. We laughed at cartoons. I made her a sandwich — cut into triangles, “the daddy way.” When she got tired, she fell asleep on my shoulder, clutching her teddy bear.
Jennifer told me about their life — how Lily’s father had left before she was born, how hard she’d worked to raise her alone, how unfair it all was. I looked at that little girl and realized I wasn’t leaving after one day.
I came back the next morning. And the next. For four months, every single day.
Some days we sat on my parked Harley, pretending to ride. Other days, we colored, watched movies, or just talked. My biker brothers started visiting too — bringing toys, sitting with Lily, helping Jennifer rest. Soon, we weren’t just a motorcycle club. We were her family.
When the Make-A-Wish Foundation offered her a trip, she turned it down.
“I already got my wish,” she said. “I got a daddy and a bunch of uncles.”
Last week, Lily’s health started fading fast. I took time off work and never left her side. Yesterday morning, she asked for me. When I walked in, she was sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, smiling faintly.
“Hi, Daddy,” she whispered.
She handed me a crayon drawing — a man on a motorcycle with a little girl on the back. On top, in shaky handwriting: “My Daddy. I love you.”
I broke down right there. She patted my hand and said softly, “Don’t be sad, Daddy. You made me happy. I got to know what having a daddy feels like.”
Lily fell asleep in my arms that afternoon and didn’t wake up again.
She passed away at 3 a.m., with Jennifer and me holding her hands. The last thing she said was, “Love you, Daddy.”
The funeral is next week. My club is riding in her honor. Jennifer made me a pink butterfly patch with Lily’s name stitched underneath. I’m sewing it onto my vest — right over my heart.
People keep asking how I’m coping. The truth is, my heart’s broken. But I wouldn’t trade those four months for anything. Because I got to be Lily’s dad. She gave me a kind of love I didn’t know existed.
I never got to take her on that motorcycle ride — but we shared something better. We shared life.
Now, whenever someone asks if I have kids, I smile.
“Yeah,” I say. “I had a daughter. Her name was Lily. And she was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
What would you have done in his place? Share your thoughts or a memory that changed your view of love and family — your story might touch someone’s heart today.