My son, who was nearing the end of his battle, asked the intimidating biker in the hospital waiting area to hold him instead of me. I’m his mom.

But Liam’s eyes brightened.
“Mama,” he whispered, “can I talk to that man?”

I hesitated. “Honey, he’s probably busy. Let’s leave him be.”

The man must have heard us. He stood up, offered a gentle smile, and walked over. “Hey there, buddy. I’m Mike,” he said, crouching down so he and Liam were eye to eye.

“I’m Liam. Are you a real biker?”

Mike chuckled. “Sure am. Been riding Harleys for decades.”

Liam gave a small smile. “My daddy wanted a motorcycle. Before he died.”

Something shifted in Mike’s face—a quiet mix of compassion and strength. “I’m really sorry about your dad,” he said softly.

“It’s okay,” Liam murmured. “He’s in heaven. I’ll see him again.”

My breath caught. Mike looked up at me, and for a moment we shared an understanding that didn’t need words.

Liam touched one of the patches on Mike’s vest. “Do you help kids?”

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