Biker Promised The Dying Girl One Last Ride But She Asked For Something Else Instead

The funeral is next week. I’m giving the eulogy. The club is doing a memorial ride in her honor.

I’m going to wear my vest with a new patch—one that Jennifer made for me. It’s a small pink butterfly with Lily’s name underneath. My daughter’s name.

People keep asking me how I’m doing. They say it must be hard to have spent so much time with a dying child. They don’t understand.

Yes, my heart is shattered. Yes, I cry every time I think about her. But I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

Because for four months, I got to be someone’s daddy. I got to make a little girl feel loved and wanted and special. And she made me feel complete in a way I never knew was possible.

I never got to take Lily for that motorcycle ride. Her tumor never let up enough for her to feel steady. But that’s okay.

Because what we had was so much better than a ride. We had tea parties and movie marathons and bedtime stories. We had “I love yous” and goodnight hugs and all the tiny moments that make up a life.

Lily told me once, near the end, that she was glad she got sick because otherwise she never would have met me. I told her I felt the same way. And I meant it.

That little girl, in her six short years, taught me more about love and courage and living fully than I’d learned in fifty-three years of life.

I carry her picture in my wallet now. The one she drew of us. My daughter and me.

And whenever someone asks if I have kids, I don’t hesitate anymore.

“Yeah,” I say. “I had a daughter. Her name was Lily. And she was the best thing that ever happened to me.”