The first time she asked me, her voice was softer than the beeping monitors beside her bed.
“Mr. Mike… will you be my daddy until I die?”
Those were her exact words. She was seven years old—pale skin, no hair, tubes taped to her face. And still, when she looked at me, she wasn’t scared. She was hopeful. Like she had been waiting her whole life for someone to ask that question to.
My name is Mike. I’m fifty‑eight, with a long gray beard, tattooed arms, and a face that looks like it’s been through hell and back. I ride with the Defenders Motorcycle Club—big guys in leather who most people avoid on the street. You wouldn’t expect to see me walking into a children’s hospital every Thursday carrying storybooks, but that’s exactly where I go. Fifteen years ago, one of our brothers lost his granddaughter to cancer. We made a promise: no child would have to fight alone if we could help it.
Most kids take a minute to get used to me. I’m loud, rough around the edges. But once I start reading, they forget the beard and the leather and just hear the voices I give to the characters. That’s what I expected with the little girl in room 432.
