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 asked why he was at the hospital.
“My daughter’s having a baby,” he said, with a soft smile. “It’s a good day.” Then, with a pause, “I’m sorry it’s not that way for you.”

“In its own way, it is,” I said. “We’re taking him home. He wants his dog. His bed. His favorite dinner.”

Mike nodded. “Home is the best place, especially near the end.”

Three days later, we heard the rumble of a motorcycle in our driveway. Liam lit up.
“Mama! He came! Mr. Mike came!”

But Mike didn’t arrive by himself. Fifteen bikers followed, each one in leather and denim, with weathered faces and eyes full of sympathy. They brought gifts: a toy Harley, a tiny vest patched with an “Honorary Member” badge, and a certificate welcoming Liam into their club.

Mike knelt beside him. “You ready for that ride, buddy?”

“Yes!”

Mike looked at me. “I’ll go slow. Just around the block.”

Every instinct in me wanted to say no. But then I realized—right now, joy mattered more than anything.

I nodded. “Take him.”

Continue reading…