The boy asked me to hold his hand while he died because his dad wouldn’t. I’m a sixty-three-year-old biker covered in tattoos with a beard down to my chest. I’ve buried war buddies.
I’ve seen things that would break most men. But nothing prepared me for a seven-year-old cancer patient looking up at me and saying those words.
I met Ethan three months ago at a charity toy run. Our club delivers toys to the children’s hospital every Christmas. I’ve been doing it for twenty-two years. You walk in, hand out some teddy bears, take pictures, and leave feeling good about yourself.
But Ethan was different.
He was sitting alone in his room while every other kid on the floor had family around them. No balloons. No cards. No parents holding his hand.
Just a bald little boy in a hospital gown clutching a worn-out stuffed elephant.Continue reading…
