He held a mug of coffee that had already gone cold.
For a while, they discussed the design.
Then he gently asked whether she had been worrying about her father's accident.
The girl's expression changed.
She looked down.
After a long silence, she whispered, “Maybe.”
The biker waited.
She touched the star on the drawing.
Then asked, “Did Daddy have to work extra because of my chair?”
The president felt his throat tighten.
He chose his words carefully.
“Your daddy worked hard because he loved taking care of his family.”
She looked up.
He continued.
“And building your chair was something he wanted to do because he loved your ideas.”
The girl remained quiet.
The biker leaned closer.
“You didn't cause the accident.”
Her eyes filled.
He spoke gently.
“Drawing a wheelchair didn't make anything bad happen.”
She stared at him.
Then whispered, “But he didn't get to finish.”
The president nodded.
“No.”
For several seconds, he couldn't speak.
Then he continued.
“Sometimes bad things happen even when nobody did anything to deserve them.”
The girl began crying.
He reached toward her.
“Would you like a hug?”
She nodded.
The enormous biker gently embraced her.
She pressed her face against his leather vest.
For a long time, they remained together.
Then she whispered, “I miss him.”
The president closed his eyes.
“So do I.”
Her little hand gripped his vest.
He rubbed her back.
Then said something he had been afraid to admit aloud.
“Sometimes I still expect him to walk into the workshop.”
The girl pulled back.
“Really?”
He nodded.
“Every time the door opens.”
She looked toward him.
He smiled sadly.
“I keep thinking it'll be your daddy carrying another ridiculous drawing.”
The girl laughed through tears.
“He had lots.”
“Oh, I know.”
The biker chuckled.
“Some of them made no sense.”
The girl smiled.
“Daddy said that meant they weren't finished yet.”
The president stared at her.
Then laughed softly.
“That's exactly what he'd say.”
For several minutes, they exchanged memories.
The father burning pancakes.
The father losing his keys.
The father singing badly while repairing equipment.
The father pretending the secret snack box required military-level security.
The girl laughed.
The president laughed.
And when they finally fell silent, the grief between them felt a little less lonely.
The mother watched from the kitchen doorway.
Tears ran down her cheeks.
She realized that her daughter needed more than adults who avoided mentioning her father.