The Biker Who Became Her Angel

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out at first. All I could see was my own daughter’s face at sixteen, laughing in the rear-view mirror the last time I ever saw her alive. All I could feel was the hole that had lived in my chest ever since.

Amara didn’t blink. She just waited, small and brave and impossibly calm.

I wanted to say yes. God help me, I wanted to say yes so badly my bones ached. But I was just a rough old biker who showed up once a week with picture books. I rode loud, drank hard, and still woke up some nights yelling my dead daughter’s name into an empty house. What did I know about being anyone’s father again, even for a little while?

I swallowed the rock in my throat. “Honey… I’d be honored. But I gotta be honest with you—I’m not very good at this daddy thing anymore. I might mess it up.”

Her whole face lit up like sunrise. “That’s okay. You can practice on me.”