For years, I thought Big Mike’s motorcycle shop was nothing but danger. I warned my kids to stay away—until my daughter’s wheelchair broke and no one else would help.
Mike rebuilt it overnight, stronger than before, and left a note: Every kid deserves to chase their dreams. No charge. Lily named it Emma—his late daughter’s name.
I tracked him down months later and told him. For the first time, he cried. From then on, he became part of our lives, teaching Lily about mechanics and grit.
At her graduation, she stood tall in the chair he built and said: “Angels don’t always have wings. Sometimes they ride motorcycles.”
