The man whose motorcycle put my son in the hospital showed up again today.
And for a moment, I honestly wanted to kill him.
It had been forty-seven days since everything fell apart.
Forty-seven days since my twelve-year-old son, Malik, was hit while crossing the street.
Forty-seven days since he slipped into a coma.
And for forty-seven days, the man who rode that motorcycle had been sitting in the same chair in my son’s hospital room.
Every single day.
Like he belonged there.
The first week, I didn’t even know his name.
The police told me the basics. A motorcycle hit my son. The rider stopped immediately. He called for help, started CPR, stayed with Malik until the ambulance arrived.
Continued on the next page
