n days, more bikers began arriving—rivals, independents, veterans, outlaws with hearts of gold. They formed shifts—morning, noon, and night. She was never alone again.
She gave them names: Skittles, Muffin, Mama D, Grumpy Mike, Stretch.
Each had a story. Each became part of hers.
That’s what she called him after he gifted her a miniature leather vest, complete with patches: “Lil Rider” and “Heart of Gold.”
“Maybe you’re not my real daddy,” she said, glowing. “But I wish you were.”
He didn’t correct her. Just wiped his eyes and nodded.
The nurses adjusted. They added chairs. Hung a sign:
“Biker Family Only—Others Knock.”
Her drawings started covering the walls—crayon portraits of bikers with sunglasses and giant hearts. Her favorite? A picture of her flying, lifted by motorcycle engines with angel wings.
Then, a month in, something unexpected happened.
A clean-cut man showed up asking for Room 117. Nervous. Clutching a grocery bag full of snacks.
Big John knew who he was before he said a word.
He’d seen a viral photo online—Katie surrounded by her “biker dads”—and come back.
“I didn’t know how to face her,” he admitted. “I thought if we left, someone better would care for her.”
John said nothing. Just stared until the man looked at the floor.
Katie didn’t cry. She didn’t scream.
“It’s okay, Daddy,” she said. “I have a lot of daddies now. But you can sit too.”
And she scooted over, making room beside her and Big John.
Her father stayed three days. Left a letter before disappearing again.
Katie’s final days were full of stories.
Each biker shared a memory of somewhere magical—stars in the desert, a beach in Mexico, the Northern Lights. She smiled, closed her eyes, and whispered:
“Maybe I’ll go there next.”
The end came quietly.
One night, she looked at Big John and said:
“I wish I had a daddy like you.” “You do,” he whispered. “You’ve got a whole gang of ‘em.”
She smiled. Continue reading…
