The Boy Asked Me To Hold His Hand While He Died Because His Dad Wouldn’t

Seven years old and this kid understood grief better than most adults.

“It’s not fair,” I said. “You shouldn’t have to go through this alone.”

Ethan reached out and grabbed my hand. His fingers were so small. So fragile. “I’m not alone anymore, Bear. I have you.”

That night I went home and cried for the first time in thirty years. Sat on my bathroom floor and sobbed like a child. This little boy with no one in the world was grateful for me. A rough, broken, tattooed biker. And his own father couldn’t even step foot in the room.

Week three, I brought my club brothers.

“Ethan, I want you to meet some people.” I walked in with six of my guys. Big, scary-looking men in leather vests. The kind of men that make people cross the street.

Ethan’s eyes went wide. “Are they all bikers?”

“They’re all bikers, buddy. And they all wanted to meet the bravest kid I know.”

My brothers surrounded his bed. Marcus pulled out a toy Harley. Robert had a leather bracelet with Ethan’s name on it. Tommy brought a helmet—child-sized—that said “Little Warrior” on the back.

“We heard you want to ride someday,” Robert said. “So we got you your gear.”

Ethan was crying. Tears streaming down his pale face as he touched each gift. “These are for me? Really?”

“Really, little brother,” Marcus said. “You’re one of us now.”

“I’m a biker?”

“Honorary member of the Iron Guardians MC,” I said. “Youngest member in our history.”Continue reading…