The biker who put my son in the hospital showed up again today, and I wanted to kill him.
Forty-seven days. Forty-seven days since Jake, my twelve-year-old boy, got hit crossing the street. Forty-seven days in a coma. And for forty-seven days, this biker—this stranger who destroyed my life—sat in that hospital room chair like he had any right to be there.
I didn’t know his name for the first week. The police told me a motorcycle struck my son.
They told me the rider stayed at the scene, called 911, did CPR until the ambulance arrived. They told me he wasn’t speeding, wasn’t drunk, that Jake ran into the street chasing a basketball.
But I didn’t care about any of that. Someone on a motorcycle hit my boy, and my boy wasn’t waking up.
