“Danny, I had a dream about Mommy. She was smiling. She said she’s proud of me. She said thank you for being brave that night. She said she’s glad I called 911.”
I had to pull over because I was crying too hard to drive.
“Danny? Can I ask you something?”
“Anything, Marcus.”
“Can I call you Uncle Danny? I don’t have any uncles. And you feel like family.”
I’m 54 years old. I’ve been a biker for thirty years. I’ve been called a lot of things. Criminal. Thug. Lowlife. Dangerous.
But “Uncle Danny” is the only title that’s ever mattered.
“Yeah, buddy,” I told him, tears streaming down my face. “You can call me Uncle Danny.”
The firefighters called me to hold a boy who thought he killed his mother. What they really did was give me a nephew. A purpose. A reason to believe that all my pain wasn’t for nothing.
Marcus saved me that night just as much as I saved him. Maybe more.
I lived so I could be there for Marcus. So I could sit on a kitchen floor at 4 AM and tell a broken boy that he wasn’t alone.
I lived so I could be Uncle Danny.
And that’s worth everything.
