So I showed up at their little house with my Harley shining, a pink helmet covered in butterflies under my arm, ready to take a brave little girl for her first ride. But when I asked if she was ready, Lily shook her head.
“Can we just pretend instead?” she whispered. “My head hurts too much. Can you be my daddy for one day? I never had one.”
That sentence hit harder than any crash I’ve ever taken. Her mother stood in the doorway, crying. I swallowed hard and said, “Sure, sweetheart. What do daddies and daughters do?”
Lily fell asleep in my arms that afternoon and didn’t wake up again.
She passed away at 3 a.m., with Jennifer and me holding her hands. The last thing she said was, “Love you, Daddy.”
The funeral is next week. My club is riding in her honor. Jennifer made me a pink butterfly patch with Lily’s name stitched underneath. I’m sewing it onto my vest — right over my heart.
People keep asking how I’m coping. The truth is, my heart’s broken. But I wouldn’t trade those four months for anything. Because I got to be Lily’s dad. She gave me a kind of love I didn’t know existed.
I never got to take her on that motorcycle ride — but we shared something better. We shared life.
Now, whenever someone asks if I have kids, I smile.
“Yeah,” I say. “I had a daughter. Her name was Lily. And she was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
What would you have done in his place? Share your thoughts or a memory that changed your view of love and family — your story might touch someone’s heart today.
