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.

I hesitated. “Sweetheart, he’s probably busy. Let’s not bother him.”

The man must have heard, because he stood, smiling softly, and walked toward us. “Hey, little man. I’m Mike,” he said, crouching to meet Liam’s eyes.

“I’m Liam. Are you a real biker?”

Mike laughed gently. “Yep. Been riding Harleys for decades.”

Liam’s lips curved into a small smile. “My dad wanted a motorcycle. Before he…before he died.”

Mike’s expression softened instantly, a mixture of strength and quiet understanding. “I’m so sorry about your dad,” he said.

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

I felt a lump in my throat. Mike met my gaze for a fleeting moment, a silent understanding passing between us.

Liam reached toward one of Mike’s patches. “Do you help kids?”

“We do,” Mike replied. “Our club brings toys to hospitals and shelters. Kids like you keep us going.”

Then Liam whispered something that made my heart stop.
“Can you hold me? Just for a minute? Mama’s arms are tired.”

My arms weren’t tired. I could have held him forever.
But he needed something else—someone who carried the air of his father: strong, safe, familiar.

Mike looked at me for permission. I nodded through tears.

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