The motorcyclist who hit my son came to visit him every day—until the day my son finally woke up and spoke his first word.

Forty-seven days ago, my 12-year-old, Jake, was hit by a motorcycle and left in a coma. The biker, Marcus, wasn’t drunk or speeding—Jake ran into the street. Still, I blamed him.

But Marcus never left. Every day, he sat by Jake’s bed, reading his favorite books, talking to him, praying. I hated him… until I saw him cry and tell Jake about his own son who’d died years ago.

On day 47, Jake opened his eyes. His first words? “You’re the man who saved me.”

Now Jake’s 14, healthy, and calls Marcus “Uncle.”

Sometimes, angels don’t have wings.
Sometimes, they wear leather vests and ride Harleys.