I Panicked When I Found A Biker Sleeping On My Porch Until I Saw The Note In His Hand

I stood there in my nightgown and slippers, staring at this broken stranger who claimed to know my son. Who claimed to have been with him when he died.

The Army had told me David died instantly in an IED explosion. That he didn’t suffer. That was all they ever told me.

The biker groaned and shifted slightly. Fresh blood seeped from somewhere under his vest. He was hurt. Badly hurt. But his note said no hospital.

I made a decision that went against every logical thought in my head. I went inside, got blankets and my first aid kit, and came back out. Then I sat down next to this stranger and began cleaning his wounds.

He woke up when I pressed the antiseptic to a gash on his forehead.

“Mrs. Chen?” His voice was hoarse, broken. “Is it really you?”

“Who are you?” I demanded. “What happened to you? Why are you here?”

He tried to sit up but winced and fell back. “My name is Thomas Morrison. I was your son’s squad leader in Afghanistan. I’ve been looking for you for twelve years.”

“Looking for me? Why?”

Thomas reached into his vest with obvious pain and pulled out a small, weathered envelope. My name was on it. In David’s handwriting.

My heart stopped.

“David gave this to me two hours before he died,” Thomas said. “Made me promise to deliver it to you personally. Not mail it. Not have the Army deliver it. Put it in your hands myself.”

“That was twelve years ago,” I whispered.

“I know.” Tears ran down his weathered face. “I know. I’m so sorry. I tried. God, I tried so many times. But I couldn’t face you. Couldn’t look you in the eye knowing I failed to protect him.”

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