“You did.”
The child welfare worker eventually made a decision the Little Boy hated.
He would not go home with the Stepfather that night.
He also would not immediately go home with the Biker.
Kinship placement required basic verification.
Background check.
Home assessment.
Confirmation of relationship.
The Biker accepted.
The Little Boy did not.
He began crying again.
“You said you were Grandpa.”
“I am.”
“Then why can’t I go with you?”
The Biker crouched.
“Because people have rules when kids are involved.”
“The rules are stupid.”
The Biker almost smiled.
“Some are.”
“Do you want me?”
The question hit harder than anything the Stepfather had said.
The Biker stared.
The Little Boy asked again.
“Do you?”
The Biker swallowed.
“Yes.”
The child looked at him.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
The Biker’s voice broke.
“I didn’t know you existed yesterday.”
He placed one hand against his own chest.
“But yes.”
The Little Boy started crying.
The Biker continued.
“If they tell me I need a clean house, I clean it.”
“If they need papers, I find papers.”
“If they need interviews, they interview me.”
“If they want to count every fork in my kitchen, I’ll put the forks on the table.”
The boy laughed through tears.
The Biker smiled.
“I’m coming.”
The child looked toward the Stepfather.
“What if he says no?”
The Biker’s eyes hardened.
“Then he gets to say no.”
He looked back at the child.
“And I get to keep showing up.”
That night, the Little Boy entered an emergency foster home run by an older couple who had done it for sixteen years.
He hated them immediately.
Not because they were unkind.
Because they were not his mother.
Not his grandfather.
Not anyone he had chosen.
The Biker followed the social worker’s car there.
He waited outside while the placement worker completed paperwork.
Before leaving, he stood at the porch.
The Little Boy clutched the pinkish-red grocery bag containing clothes the police had retrieved from home.
The old photograph was safely inside.
The Biker asked, “You have the candle?”
The boy showed it.
“Good.”
“Are you coming tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
The Biker almost said morning.
Too vague.
“Ten.”
The Little Boy nodded.
“Ten.”
“I’ll be here.”
The next morning at 9:32, the Biker parked outside.
He waited until 9:58 before walking to the door.
The foster father noticed.
“You’ve been out there half an hour.”
The Biker shrugged.
“Told him ten.”
“You could’ve knocked.”
“Not before ten.”
The older man smiled.
“Good.”
The Little Boy ran into the hallway.
“You came.”
The Biker removed his sunglasses.
“I said I would.”
That became the beginning.
Not of custody.
Not yet.
Of trust.
The legal problems arrived quickly.
The Stepfather retained an attorney.
He claimed abandonment at the gas station had been temporary discipline.
A terrible judgment, perhaps, but not grounds for permanently removing a grieving child from the only home he knew.
He claimed the Biker had been absent from his daughter’s life for years.
True.