The first time she asked me, her voice was barely louder than the beeping monitors beside her bed. “Mr. Mike… would you be my daddy until I die?” Those were the exact words. Seven years old. Skin pale, hair gone, tubes in her nose. She looked at me—not frightened, not confused, but hopeful. Like she’d been waiting her whole life to ask someone that question. My name’s Mike. Fifty-eight years old. Long gray beard, arms covered in tattoos, a face that tells people I’ve lived hard miles. I ride with the Defenders Motorcycle Club. Most folks see me and step aside. I’m not the guy you expect to see walking into a children’s hospital every Thursday afternoon with a stack of storybooks und….CONTINUE READING IN BELOW
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