Dale took his last breath with a toddler on his chest, humming a motorcycle lullaby back to the man who’d taught him the sound, surrounded by brothers, and a young mother who was holding his hand.
The funeral was three days later. The Iron Wolves MC expected maybe fifty people. Instead, over four hundred showed up.
“People see bikers and think dangerous,” Jessica said, her voice breaking. “They see leather and tattoos and motorcycles and think threat. But I see Dale Murphy. I see a dying man who used his last strength to give my son peace. I see a hero who wore leather instead of a cape. And I will spend the rest of my life making sure Emmett knows about the biker who held him. The biker who proved that love doesn’t care what you look like or how much time you have left. Love just shows up. And Dale showed up.”
She held up a photo. It was from day two in the hospital—Dale holding Emmett, both of them sleeping, Dale’s leather vest visible, chemo port in his arm, the contrast of this tough dying biker cradling a vulnerable autistic toddler.
“This is the man I want my son to become,” Jessica said. “Not despite being a biker. Because of it. Because Dale taught me that real strength is using whatever you have left—even if it’s just six hours in a chair while poison drips into your arm—to help someone who needs you.”Continue reading…
