He stood slowly. Tall. Broad. Beard to his chest. Tattoos down both arms. The kind of man Sarah would’ve crossed the street to avoid. But his eyes were red. He’d been crying.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just needed to say thank you.”
He looked at the headstone, then back at me. “Your wife saved my daughter’s life. I come here to tell her that Kaylee’s still alive because of her.”
I stared at him. “Sarah never mentioned a girl named Kaylee.”
“She didn’t know her personally. Probably didn’t even remember me. But I remember her.” He paused. “Can I tell you what happened?”
We sat down. Me on one side of Sarah’s grave. Him on the other.
His name was Mike. A mechanic. Forty-seven. His daughter, Kaylee, was diagnosed with leukemia at nine. Insurance helped, but not enough. They sold their house. Worked nonstop. Raised money through his motorcycle club. But they were still $40,000 short.
“I was drowning,” he said. “My baby girl was dying, and I couldn’t save her.”Continue reading…
