Every Week This Little Girl Cries In My Arms At The Laundromat And I Can’t Tell Anyone Why

Every week this little girl cries in my arms at the laundromat and I can’t tell anyone why. She’s maybe seven years old, shows up every Tuesday at 4 PM sharp, and breaks down sobbing the moment she sees me sitting in the same corner by the dryers.

I’m a sixty-eight-year-old biker who looks like I eat children for breakfast. Leather vest covered in patches. Beard down to my chest. Tattoos on every visible inch of skin. The kind of guy mothers pull their kids away from at grocery stores.

But this little girl, Destiny, she runs straight to me. Climbs into my lap. Buries her face in my leather vest and cries like the world is ending. And I hold her. Rock her. Tell her it’s going to be okay even though we both know it’s not.

The other people at the laundromat stare. Some take pictures. One woman called the cops once, thinking I was some predator. The manager knows the truth but he’s sworn to secrecy. Just like I am. Just like Destiny is.

Because if anyone finds out why she really comes here, why she really cries, they’ll take her away from the only person she has left. And that person is dying.

It started three months ago. I was washing my clothes after a long ride, minding my own business, when this little girl walked in alone. No parent. No adult. Just a trash bag full of dirty clothes that was bigger than she was.Continue reading…