Biker Who Hit My Son Visited Every Single Day Until My Son Woke Up And Said One Word

The biker who put my son in the hospital showed up again today, and I wanted to kill him.

Forty-seven days. Forty-seven days since Jake, my twelve-year-old boy, got hit crossing the street. Forty-seven days in a coma. And for forty-seven days, this biker—this stranger who destroyed my life—sat in that hospital room chair like he had any right to be there.

I didn’t know his name for the first week. The police told me a motorcycle struck my son.

They told me the rider stayed at the scene, called 911, did CPR until the ambulance arrived. They told me he wasn’t speeding, wasn’t drunk, that Jake ran into the street chasing a basketball.

But I didn’t care about any of that. Someone on a motorcycle hit my boy, and my boy wasn’t waking up.

The doctors said Jake’s brain was swelling. They said we had to wait. They said coma patients sometimes hear everything around them, that we should talk to him, play his favorite music, remind him why he needed to come back.

I couldn’t do it. Every time I looked at Jake with those tubes and machines, I broke down.

But this biker—this man I’d never met—he talked to my son every single day.

I first saw him on day three. I walked into Jake’s room and found this huge bearded guy in a leather vest sitting next to my son’s bed. He was reading out loud from a book. Harry Potter. Jake’s favorite.

“Who the hell are you?” I’d demanded.

The man stood up slowly. He was maybe fifty-five, sixty. Big guy, probably 6’2″, patches all over his vest. “My name is Marcus,” he said quietly. “I’m the one who hit your son.”

I lunged at him. I don’t even remember doing it. Hospital security pulled me off before I could land more than one punch.

“You need to leave,” the head nurse told him. “Right now. We’ll call the police if you come back.”

But he did come back. The next day. And the day after that.

The hospital couldn’t legally ban him from the building. And my wife—God help me—my wife Sarah told them to let him stay. “He wants to be here,” she said. “And Jake needs all the support he can get.”

I couldn’t believe she was defending him. “He PUT Jake in that coma!”

“It was an accident,” she said, crying. “The police report said so. Jake ran into the street. Marcus did everything right. He stayed. He helped. He’s been visiting every day because he cares.”

I didn’t want to hear it. As far as I was concerned, Marcus being there was torture. Every time I saw him, I saw the moment my son’s life got destroyed.

But Marcus kept coming. Morning and night. He’d sit in that chair and read to Jake. Harry Potter, then Percy Jackson, then The Hobbit. All Jake’s favorites.

He’d tell Jake stories too. Stories about his own son, who’d died in a car accident twenty years ago. Stories about learning to ride motorcycles. Stories about his club, the Nomads, and all the charity work they did.

“Your dad’s real torn up, buddy,” Marcus would say to my unconscious son. “He loves you so much it’s eating him alive. But your mama, she’s strong. She knows you’re gonna wake up. And I know it too.”

On day twelve, I walked in and Marcus was showing Jake pictures on his phone. “This here’s my boy, Danny. He was about your age in this one. Loved baseball just like you. He was the best kid…”

His voice broke. This tough biker with tattoos covering his arms was crying over my son.

I wanted to hate him. I needed to hate him. But watching this broken man grieve over a boy he’d accidentally hurt—it cracked something in me.

“Why do you keep coming here?” I asked him.

Marcus looked up, surprised I was talking to him. “Because I can’t leave him alone. Because when my son died, I wasn’t there. I was working a night shift. He died and I never got to say goodbye.” He wiped his eyes. “Jake’s not my boy. But he’s somebody’s boy. And he’s hurt because of me. I can’t bring Danny back, but I can sit here and make sure Jake knows somebody’s fighting for him to wake up.”

That destroyed me. I sat down hard in the other chair. “The police said it wasn’t your fault.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Marcus said. “Fault or not, I’m the reason he’s here.”

We sat in silence for a while. Then Marcus asked, “You want me to leave? Really leave? Because if you do, I will. I don’t want to make this harder on you.”

I looked at my son. At the tubes. At the machines. At Jake’s still face. “No,” I whispered. “Stay. Please stay.”

So he did. And slowly, I started staying too. The three of us—Marcus, Sarah, and me—we took shifts. We read to Jake. We played his favorite songs. We told him about his baseball team winning games without him. We told him his dog missed him. We told him to come home.

On day twenty-three, Marcus brought his whole motorcycle club. Fifteen guys in leather vests stood in the hallway and prayed for my son. They couldn’t all fit in the room, but they wanted Jake to hear their bikes. So they went to the parking lot and revved their engines in unison—a thundering chorus of sound that echoed through the hospital.

“Jake loves motorcycles,” Sarah told them, crying. “He’s always asking about them. If he can hear anything, he’ll hear that.”

On day thirty, the doctors started talking about long-term care facilities. They said Jake might not wake up. They said we needed to prepare ourselves.

see more in the next page..