The boy asked me to hold his hand while he was dying because his father wouldn’t. I’m a sixty-three-year-old biker, covered in tattoos, with a beard that reaches my chest. I’ve buried war buddies and witnessed things that would break most men, yet nothing prepared me for a seven-year-old cancer patient looking up at me and asking, “Mister, will you …
👇 👇 👇 👇 👇
