His voice began to break.
The road captain could no longer look away.
He already has one.
The boy stopped reading.
One biker turned toward the wall.
Another rubbed both eyes.
The mother placed one hand on her son's shoulder.
This time he did not pull away.
He read the next lines.
But don't turn him into me either.
If he hates motorcycles, let him hate motorcycles.
If he likes books, buy him books.
If he wants to dance, learn to clap.
If he wants nothing to do with any of you, accept that.
He doesn't owe me a replica of my life just because I didn't get to finish it.
The road captain whispered:
“Damn.”
The child looked at him.
The giant biker’s eyes were wet.
The boy continued.
And if he has trouble walking, running, speaking, learning, seeing, hearing, or anything else none of us can predict yet, never make him believe being tough means pretending it doesn't hurt.
The mother gasped.
The boy looked at her.
“What?”
She had both hands over her mouth.
The road captain frowned.
The boy’s father had written the words before his birth.
Before the leg braces.
Before the walker.
The mother whispered:
“He knew there might be complications.”
The boy stared.
“Why?”
She looked at him.
Now another secret stood between them.
The road captain stepped backward.
This part belonged to them.
The boy asked again.
“Why?”
His mother sat on the floor beside the lockers.
She looked exhausted.
“The doctors told us there was a possibility.”
“Of what?”
“That you might come early.”
“I did.”
“Yes.”
“Because Dad died?”
She closed her eyes.
“Partly.”
The boy waited.
“There was something else.”
The road captain watched the mother struggle.
The boy tightened his grip on the stuffed bear.
“What?”
She answered:
“Before your father died, doctors had already found a problem with the pregnancy.”
The boy looked at his legs.
“Me?”
“No.”
She reached for him.
He allowed it.
“Not you.”
“The pregnancy.”
“They told us you might be born early.”
“That you might need extra help.”
“That we didn't know exactly what.”
The boy looked at the letter.
“Dad knew?”
“Yes.”
“And he still…”
His voice faded.
His mother understood.
“He wasn't scared of you.”
The boy’s eyes filled.
“He was terrified for you.”
“Different thing.”
She touched his cheek.
“He spent two weeks reading everything he could find.”
“He drove the doctor crazy.”
“He bought that bear because he said every baby needed something waiting for him before he arrived.”
The boy pressed the bear tighter to his chest.
The road captain had to turn away again.
One of the old bikers whispered: