25/11/2025
The little girl asked if I could be her daddy until she dies but I refused because of one thing. Those were her exact words. Seven years old, sitting in a hospital bed with tubes in her nose, and she looked up at me—a complete stranger, a scary-looking biker—and asked if I'd pretend to be her father for however long she had left.
I'm a 58-year-old biker named Mike. I've got tattoos covering both arms, a beard down to my chest, and I ride with the Defenders Motorcycle Club.
I volunteer at Children's Hospital every Thursday reading books to sick kids. It's something our club started doing fifteen years ago after one of our brother's granddaughters spent months in pediatric oncology.
Most kids are scared of me at first. I get it. I'm big and loud and look like I should be in a motorcycle gang movie, not a children's hospital. But once I start reading, they forget about how I look. They just hear the story.
That's what I thought would happen with Amara.
I walked into room 432 on a Thursday afternoon in March. The nurse had warned me this was a new patient. Seven years old. Stage four neuroblastoma. No family visits in the three weeks she'd been admitted.
"No family at all?" I'd asked.
The nurse's face had gone tight. "Her mother abandoned her here. Dropped her off for treatment and never came back. We've been trying to reach her for weeks. CPS is involved now but Amara doesn't have any other family. She's going into foster care once she's stable enough to leave."
"And if she's not stable enough?"
The nurse looked away. "Then she'll die here. Alone."
I stood outside room 432 for a full minute before I could make myself go in. I've read to dying kids before. It never gets easier. But a kid dying completely alone? That was a new kind of hell.
I knocked softly and pushed open the door. "Hey there, I'm Mike. I'm here to read you a story if you'd like."
The little girl in the bed turned to look at me. She had the biggest brown eyes I'd ever seen. Her hair was gone from chemo. Her skin had that grayish tone that means the body is struggling. But she smiled when she saw me.
"You're really big," she said. Her voice was small and raspy.
"Yeah, I get that a lot." I held up the book I'd brought. "I've got a story about a giraffe who learns to dance. Want to hear it?"
She nodded. So I sat down in the chair next to her bed and started reading.
I was halfway through the book when she interrupted me. "Mr. Mike?"
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
"Do you have any kids?"
The question hit me hard. "I had a daughter. She passed away when she was sixteen. Car accident. That was twenty years ago."
Amara was quiet for a moment. Then she asked, "Do you miss being a daddy?"
My throat tightened. "Every single day, honey."
"My daddy left before I was born," she said matter-of-factly. "And my mama brought me here and never came back. The nurses say she's not coming back ever."
I didn't know what to say to that. What do you say to a seven-year-old who's been abandoned while dying?
Amara kept talking. "The social worker lady said I'm going to go live with a foster family when I get better. But I heard the doctors talking. They don't think I'm getting better."
"Sweetheart—"
"It's okay," she said. Her voice was so calm. Too calm for a seven-year-old. "I know I'm dying. Everyone thinks I don't understand but I do. I heard them say the cancer is everywhere now. They said maybe six months. Maybe less."
I set the book down. "Amara, I'm so sorry."
She looked at me with those huge eyes. "Mr. Mike, can I ask you something?"
"Anything, honey."
"Would you be my daddy? Just until I die? I know it's not for very long. But I always wanted a daddy. And you seem nice. And you miss being a daddy. So maybe we could help each other?"
I felt like someone had punched me in the chest. This little girl, dying and alone, was trying to help ME. Trying to make her own abandonment about giving me something.
"Sweetheart," I said, and my voice was shaking. "I would be honored to be your daddy but I can't because I'm.......... (continue reading in the C0MMENT)
