I never liked kids and never wanted any. But one cold morning in Oklahoma, that changed forever. On my Harley, outside a lonely truck stop, lay a tiny baby in a filthy Walmart blanket. A note read: “Please save him.” He wasn’t crying. His lips were blue, his breaths shallow.
I’m 52, a lifelong biker, used to oil, bars, and the open road. My ex-wife left because I refused to have kids. But holding this fragile baby, something inside me cracked open. I ran inside, shouting for help, cradling him against my chest until the ambulance arrived.
At the hospital, the doctors stabilized him. Severe dehydration, malnutrition, hypothermia—another hour, and he’d have died. I couldn’t let him disappear into the system; I’d been in foster care and knew the pain he could face. Six months later, after background checks and sleepless nights, the adoption was finalized. They called him James at the hospital; I named him JJ.
Now, he’s three: bright eyes, curly hair, and the loudest laugh. The Brotherhood Motorcycle Club melts at his sight, even giving him his own leather vest. “Da, I love you,” he says, and I tell him the truth: “I love you too, buddy. More than anything.”
I never found his mother. I don’t know why she left him. But I do know this: that morning didn’t just save his life—it saved mine. God left a baby on my motorcycle, and in him, I found the love I never knew I was missing.
