“Waiting sucks.”
She laughed despite herself.
“Yes.”
Then he told her about the nights waiting outside his friend’s treatment room.
The night his daughter was born.
The hours after the marrow procedure when he wondered whether the cells would ever actually help anyone.
Waiting did not become easier.
But shared fear became lighter.
The girl had a viral infection.
Nothing more.
They went home the next afternoon.
The mother slept for twelve hours.
The biker returned to his own life.
That was how their strange family expanded.
Not through declarations.
Through showing up.
Two years after they met, the little girl was eleven.
The biker was sixty.
He had begun reducing construction work.
His knees complained.
His beard had gone almost completely gray.
The girl teased him.
“You’re old.”
“I saved your life. Respect your elders.”
“You donated cells. Doctors saved me.”
The biker stared.
Her mother nearly fell out of her chair laughing.
“You’ve created a monster.”
He pointed at the mother.
“This is your parenting.”
The girl smiled.
Then became serious.
“Can I ask something?”
Both adults braced themselves.
Children’s serious questions had proved dangerous.
“What?”
“Did you ever wish you knew who I was before?”
The biker thought.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Curiosity.”
“That’s all?”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“I wanted to know whether it worked.”
She nodded.
“Would you have been sad if I died?”
The mother’s breath caught.
The biker did not dodge.
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t know me.”
“No.”
“Then why?”
He looked toward his hands.
“Because after I donated, knowing there was a kid somewhere made you real even without a name.”
The girl listened.
“I imagined things.”
“What things?”
“You getting older.”
He smiled.
“Going to school. Annoying your parents.”
“I don’t annoy them.”
Her mother coughed.
The biker continued.
“Having birthdays.”
He looked at her.
“I wanted you to get boring problems.”
The girl frowned.
“What’s a boring problem?”
“Homework.”
“Bad.”
“Exactly.”
“Friends being annoying.”
“Very bad.”
“Not knowing what shoes to wear.”
She looked horrified.
“That’s serious.”
The biker smiled.
“Those were the problems I hoped you’d have.”
The girl understood.
Maybe not completely.
Enough.
She looked at him.
“I have lots of boring problems.”
“Good.”