“One day at a time, buddy. One day at a time.”
That was eight months ago.
I visit every month. Drive six hours on my bike to spend the weekend with Marcus and his grandmother. We play catch. Watch movies. Talk about his mom. Talk about my dad and sister. Talk about guilt and grief and learning to live with both.
Last month, Marcus asked if I’d teach him to ride a motorcycle when he’s old enough. I told him I’d be honored.
His grandmother pulled me aside after dinner. “You saved him that night. You know that, right? The firefighters, the social worker, everyone said they’d never seen a child in that much pain. And you reached him. You were the only one who could.”
“I just told him my story,” I said. “I just let him know he wasn’t alone.”
“That’s everything, Danny. When you’re that broken, knowing you’re not alone is everything.”
I ride home every month after those visits with tears in my helmet. Because seeing Marcus heal is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed. This boy who thought he killed his mother is learning to forgive himself. Learning to honor her sacrifice. Learning to live.
The firefighters who called me that night have become friends. They’ve invited me to their station. Asked me to talk to other first responders about trauma and children. Asked me how a biker with tattoos and a leather vest knows how to reach kids that trained professionals can’t.
I tell them the truth: I know because I’ve been there. Because I carry the same scars. Because sometimes the only person who can help a broken child is a broken adult who survived the same hell.
