I was just another aging rider passing through a hospital lobby that afternoon—another man with too many roads behind him, too many losses tucked into the lining of his jacket, and not much left in the world that could surprise me.
Forty years riding under open skies had carved patience into my bones and quiet into my heart.
Not to flinch. Not to feel more than necessary. But the moment I stepped into that lobby, all of that vanished.
Something about the stillness of the moment, the tightness in the air, the way voices echoed off the polished floors—it all pushed me toward the scene unfolding by the reception desk.
A young mother stood there, trembling, her arms wrapped desperately around her little girl. The child looked so small I could have held her in one hand. Her head—bald from treatments—rested weakly against her mother’s neck.
Her tiny fingers clutched her mother’s shoulder as if she was afraid the world might drop her if she loosened her grip. Even from where I stood, I could see exhaustion carved into every line of that woman’s face.
Sleepless nights. Endless worry. Too many conversations with doctors she never wanted to meet.
She was trying—fighting—not to break. Continue reading…
