So we sat there, on opposite sides of my wife’s grave — me, her husband of twenty years, and this stranger who somehow carried a piece of her story I had never known.
His name was Mike.
He was forty-seven, a mechanic, and a single father.
His daughter, Kaylee, had been diagnosed with leukemia when she was only nine years old. Insurance covered part of the treatment, but not nearly enough. He sold his house. Worked every hour his body could handle. His motorcycle club held fundraisers, passed helmets around at bars, organized charity rides.
Still, they were forty thousand dollars short.
“I was breaking,” Mike said, his voice rough. “I had a little girl fading in a hospital bed, and I couldn’t afford to save her.”
One afternoon, he had stepped into the hallway because he didn’t want Kaylee to see him cry.
