That’s when Derek appeared.
A biker, covered in snow, stopping to check the weather before heading north. He saw my mother sitting alone, quietly crying. “My son’s coming,” she said. “Tommy promised.”
Derek asked for our phone numbers. He called Tom four times. Me twice. No one picked up.
So he made a choice.
He asked for the facility’s address—3.2 miles away—and said, “I’ll get her home.”
He draped his leather jacket over her, lifted her in his arms, and stepped into the storm.
The snow reached his knees. The wind felt like knives. But he kept walking. He chatted with her the whole way—about his children, his work, his bike—to keep her calm. She told him about her late husband, about the “good boys” she’d raised. Derek didn’t correct her. He just walked.
A police cruiser spotted them midway. The officer helped them in and drove the remaining distance.
When they arrived, staff were stunned. Derek was soaked, shivering, his beard crusted with ice. “You carried her?” the director asked. He nodded. “I couldn’t leave her there.”Continue reading…
