11/06/2025
Two little blonde girls sitting alone at a bus stop with a note saying: "Please Take Care Of Them". My riding brother Jake and I were heading back from our Saturday morning coffee run when we saw them.
They were wearing matching neon yellow safety shirts, the kind construction workers wear. At 7 in the morning, there wasn't another soul around.
Jake slowed his bike first, and I pulled up beside him. Something wasn't right. Kids that young don't sit at bus stops alone.
As we got closer, I saw the younger one was crying, and the older girl had her arm around her sister's shoulders.
Between them sat a brown paper bag and a blue balloon tied to the bench. Jake and I exchanged looks, killed our engines, and walked over slowly so we wouldn't scare them.
"Hey there, little ones," Jake said gently, crouching down to their level. "Where's your mama?"
The older girl looked up at us with the most heartbreaking eyes I'd seen in my sixty-three years. She pointed to the paper bag. "Mama left us a note for someone nice to find."
My stomach dropped. Jake reached for the bag carefully while I kept watch on the girls. Inside was a loaf of bread, two juice boxes, a change of clothes for each girl, and a folded piece of notebook paper.
Jake's hands shook as he opened it. His face went white as he read, and then he handed it to me without a word.
The note was written in desperate, barely legible handwriting: "To whoever finds Lily and Rose—I can't do this anymore. I'm sick and I have no family and no money.
They deserve better than dying with me in our car. Please take care of them. They're good girls. I'm so sorry. Their birthdays are March 3rd and April 12th.
They like pancakes and bedtime stories. Please don't let them forget me but please give them a life. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry."
That was it. No name, no phone number, no address. Just two little girls in bright yellow shirts so someone would notice them, with a balloon so they'd look like they were going to a party instead of being abandoned.
I looked at Jake and saw tears running down into his beard. In forty years of riding together, through funerals and fights and everything in between, I'd never seen Jake cry.
"What's your names, sweethearts?" I asked, my voice cracking. "I'm Lily," the older one said. "She's Rose. She don't talk much 'cause she's shy.
Our mama said someone nice would find us and take us somewhere safe. Are you nice?" Jake let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob.
"Yeah, baby girl. We're nice. We're gonna take care of you."
I pulled out my phone to call 911, but Jake grabbed my wrist. "Wait. Just... wait one second."
He wiped his eyes and looked at those two little girls sitting there with their paper bag of belongings and their balloon, and I knew exactly what he was thinking. Because I was thinking it too.
We're both old bikers. Never had kids of our own. Jake's wife left him thirty years ago because he couldn't have children. I lost my fiancée before we ever got the chance.
We'd spent our whole lives being the scary-looking guys that parents pull their kids away from.
And here were two little girls whose mother had trusted that someone—anyone—would be kinder to her babies than she could be in whatever hell she was living.
"We should call," I said quietly. "They need police, family services, people who know what they're doing."
Rose, the younger one, suddenly spoke for the first time. "Don't want police. Want you." She reached out and grabbed Jake's vest with both tiny hands. "You stay."
Jake completely broke. This huge, tattooed, bearded biker who looked like he could break a man in half, just crumpled
He pulled both girls into his arms and hugged them like they were the most precious things in the world.
"I got you," he whispered. "I got you both. You're safe now. I promise. We'll take you to a...... (continue reading in the C0MMENT)
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