We laughed so hard that the nickname stuck.
There were also difficult days.
Days when Tucker didn't want visitors.
Days when Angie called to say he was too tired to talk.
Days when another test brought more uncertainty rather than answers.
We learned to accept those days without treating them as failures.
Sometimes helping meant staying home when Angie asked for quiet.
Sometimes it meant leaving dinner at the door.
Sometimes it meant sending a message that required no answer.
And sometimes it meant sitting beside a hospital bed while a child slept.
I began realizing that being on someone's team wasn't about being present for every moment.
It was about being dependable in the moments when your presence was wanted and respecting the moments when it wasn't.
One afternoon, Tucker asked whether he could ride on a real motorcycle.
I looked at Angie.
She raised an eyebrow.
I turned back to him.
“Not yet, buddy.”
He frowned.
“Why?”
“Because motorcycles have rules.”
He sighed.
“Everything has rules.”
I laughed.
“That's life.”
He looked toward my boots.
“When I'm big?”
“When you're old enough, healthy enough, and properly trained, we'll talk about it.”
He considered that.
Then he asked, “What if I'm really big?”
I grinned.
“Then maybe you'll need a really big motorcycle.”
He smiled.
“Like Ron.”
“Exactly.”
Tucker looked satisfied.
Then he announced that his first motorcycle would have a horn louder than Ron's.
I told him that was probably impossible.
He said he'd prove me wrong.
For a while, we were just two people arguing about motorcycles.
Not a grieving father and a sick child.
Not an old biker trying to make up for something he couldn't change.
Just friends.
I began looking forward to those ordinary afternoons more than any long ride.
But the illness remained unpredictable.
Late that summer, the doctors explained that Tucker's response to treatment was not progressing as quickly as they had hoped.
They reviewed the scans and discussed adjustments to his treatment plan with Angie.
The news frightened her.
She called me after the appointment.
I could hear the effort it took to keep her voice steady.
“They're changing things.”
I sat down.
“Okay.”
“They explained why, but I keep thinking about what happens if it doesn't work.”
I looked toward Sarah's photograph.
“Do you want me to come over?”
She hesitated.
Then she whispered, “Please.”
I arrived an hour later.
Tucker was asleep.
Angie sat at the kitchen table surrounded by appointment papers, medication instructions, and a notebook filled with questions for the doctors.
She looked up when I entered.