And then Emmett did something that made everyone in the room break down.
He started making the sound. The motorcycle rumble. This two-and-a-half-year-old child, doing his best to make that deep, chest-vibrating sound that Dale had used to calm him.
Safety. Peace. A reason to rest.
“Dale okay,” Emmett said softly, patting the biker’s chest. “Dale safe. Emmett here.”
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.
Jessica stood at the podium during the service, Emmett in her arms. She told the story of the dying biker who held her autistic son for six hours. She told how Dale gave his last good days to a child he barely knew. She told how he changed everything.
“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.Continue reading…
