“Home.”
Mom shook her head.
“No. That baby has a grandfather standing right here. You’re staying for supper.”
His mouth opened, but no words came out.
“You’re staying for every supper,” she added. “And every birthday. And every Christmas. If you think I’m letting you disappear again, you’ve lost your mind.”
Ray’s chin began to tremble.
The man who had spent decades standing outside his daughter’s life, never asking for more than he had been promised, covered his face with one enormous hand.
Then my mother pulled him into a hug.
And the other five bikers stood in the driveway pretending they weren’t crying, either.
That was six months ago.
Lily turned one last Saturday.
She has Kayla’s chin, Ray’s stubborn streak, and a remarkable ability to get an entire room of grown men to do whatever she wants.
Every time Ray walks through the door, she grabs at his boots and demands to be picked up.
