Biker Who Hit My Son Visited Every Single Day Until My Son Woke Up And Said One Word

I wanted to hate him. I needed to hate him. But watching this broken man grieve over a boy he’d accidentally hurt—it cracked something in me.

“Why do you keep coming here?” I asked him.

Marcus looked up, surprised I was talking to him. “Because I can’t leave him alone. Because when my son died, I wasn’t there. I was working a night shift. He died and I never got to say goodbye.” He wiped his eyes. “Jake’s not my boy. But he’s somebody’s boy. And he’s hurt because of me. I can’t bring Danny back, but I can sit here and make sure Jake knows somebody’s fighting for him to wake up.”

That destroyed me. I sat down hard in the other chair. “The police said it wasn’t your fault.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Marcus said. “Fault or not, I’m the reason he’s here.”

We sat in silence for a while. Then Marcus asked, “You want me to leave? Really leave? Because if you do, I will. I don’t want to make this harder on you.”

I looked at my son. At the tubes. At the machines. At Jake’s still face. “No,” I whispered. “Stay. Please stay.”

So he did. And slowly, I started staying too. The three of us—Marcus, Sarah, and me—we took shifts. We read to Jake. We played his favorite songs. We told him about his baseball team winning games without him. We told him his dog missed him. We told him to come home.

On day twenty-three, Marcus brought his whole motorcycle club. Fifteen guys in leather vests stood in the hallway and prayed for my son. They couldn’t all fit in the room, but they wanted Jake to hear their bikes. So they went to the parking lot and revved their engines in unison—a thundering chorus of sound that echoed through the hospital.

“Jake loves motorcycles,” Sarah told them, crying. “He’s always asking about them. If he can hear anything, he’ll hear that.”

On day thirty, the doctors started talking about long-term care facilities. They said Jake might not wake up. They said we needed to prepare ourselves.

see more in the next page..