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.

That morning began like any other at the children’s hospital—quiet, tense, ordinary in its own heartbreaking way. My son, Liam, was seven, and he had fought leukemia for two long years. Today, the doctors told us it was time to stop treatment. Time to take him home. Time to focus on comfort over cure.

I wasn’t ready. No parent ever is.
But Liam—so brave, so small and worn—was ready to go home.

We sat in the waiting room as the staff finished the discharge paperwork. That’s when Liam noticed a man across the room. He was alone, quiet, imposing in a leather vest covered with patches, arms tattooed from wrist to shoulder. You’d think twice before approaching someone like him.

But Liam’s eyes lit up.
“Mama,” he whispered, “can I talk to him?”

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