The community that had accused these men of nearly killing my son eventually apologized. The neighbors who’d thrown rocks and called them murderers showed up at the clubhouse with letters. The local news did a follow-up story about how witnesses assumed the worst about bikers and almost let the real criminal get away.
But Robert says he doesn’t need apologies.
I asked him once why they stopped that day. Why they intervened when they saw the SUV following Connor. They didn’t know us. Didn’t know my son. Could have just kept riding.
Robert was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “Because I have a grandson. And I’d want someone to stop for him. Because every kid deserves protection. Because that’s what we do. We ride, and we watch out for people who can’t watch out for themselves.”
“Most people wouldn’t have gotten involved.”
“Most people aren’t bikers.” He smiled sadly. “Ma’am, we know what it’s like to be vulnerable. To have people assume you’re dangerous when you’re not. To be treated like criminals when you’ve done nothing wrong. Maybe that’s why we look out for other vulnerable people. We know how it feels.”
Connor is turning eleven next month. The bikers are throwing him a party at their clubhouse. Fifty members are coming. They’re getting him a custom leather jacket with “Little Guardian” on the back.
He can’t stop talking about it.
Sometimes I look at my son—healthy, happy, laughing—and I think about how close I came to losing him. How a few seconds’ difference could have changed everything. How four strangers on motorcycles made a split-second decision to intervene and saved my baby’s life.
Then I was blamed them. Hated them. Wanted them destroyed.
They weren’t the monsters. They were the heroes. They always were.
And now they’re family. Forever.Continue reading…
