The little girl looked up at me and asked, “Can you be my daddy until I die?” Seven years old. Stage four neuroblastoma. Tubes in her nose. No family. And she was asking me—a 58-year-old biker named Mike, tattoos down my arms, a chest-length beard, riding with the Defenders Motorcycle Club—to be her dad.
I volunteer every Thursday at Children’s Hospital, reading to sick kids. Most are nervous at first—they see a big, loud biker and expect trouble. But once I open a book, the stories take over. That’s what I thought would happen with Amara.
I walked into room 432 one Thursday afternoon in March. The nurse warned me: new patient, seven years old, no family visits for three weeks.
“No family at all?” I asked.
Her face tightened. “Her mother dropped her off for treatment and never came back. CPS is involved. If she gets better, she’ll go to foster care. If not…” Her voice trailed off. “She could die here alone.”
I stood outside the door for a long moment. I’ve read to dying kids before. Never like this—never to a child completely abandoned.
I knocked softly. “Hey there, I’m Mike. I’m here to read you a story if you want.”
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