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.

It started like any other day in the children’s hospital—ordinary in the way only a place full of fragile hearts and too many farewells can be. My son Liam was seven. He had battled leukemia for two long years, and that morning the doctors told us it was time to stop treatment. Time to take him home. Time to let him be comfortable.

I wasn’t ready. No mother ever truly is.
But Liam—my brave, worn-out little boy—just wanted to go home.

We were in the waiting room, sitting together while the staff prepared his discharge papers, when Liam spotted a man across the room. He was quiet, sitting alone: a big, bearded figure with a leather vest covered in patches, tattoos down both arms, and the look of someone you’d think twice about approaching.

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