I broke down in the hallway. Marcus found me there, sobbing, and he just sat down next to me. He didn’t say anything. He just sat there while I fell apart.
“I can’t lose him,” I finally said. “He’s my only kid. He’s everything.”
On day forty, I asked Marcus why he rode motorcycles. “After what happened to your son, after hitting Jake—why do you still ride?”
Marcus thought about it. “Because Danny loved bikes. Used to sit on my lap when I’d work on mine in the garage. Loved the sound, the speed, the freedom. After he died, I thought about selling my bike. But then I realized riding was the only place I still felt close to him.”
He looked at Jake. “Your boy’s gonna wake up. And when he does, he’s gonna have questions about that day. About motorcycles. About fear. And you’re gonna have to figure out how to let him live his life even though you almost lost him.”
On day forty-five, Marcus brought a gift. A model motorcycle kit. “For when he wakes up. We’ll build it together.”
I held that box and cried. This man had spent forty-five days sitting with my son, reading to him, praying for him, loving him like he was his own. He’d given my family something we desperately needed—hope.
On day forty-seven, I walked into Jake’s room at 6 AM. Marcus was already there, reading. And as I walked in, I saw it.Continue reading…
