Every Sunday, six motorcycles line the curb outside Mom’s house. Six men in leather vests squeeze around a dining table built for four, arguing over who gets to hold Lily after dinner.
Moose taught her to say “vroom” last week.
Mom pretended to be offended for approximately ten seconds before laughing so hard she had to sit down.
I still think about that morning at the hospital.
I think about the way I stood in that hallway, ready to fight six strangers because I believed they were trying to take my sister’s child away from us.
I think about the security guard stepping aside.
I think about the nurses opening the doors.
For a long time, I couldn’t understand why they had trusted those men.
Now I do.
They knew something I didn’t.
They knew that beneath the leather vests, the gray beards, and the intimidating faces were men who had shown up for a frightened young mother when she needed help.
