These Bikers Kidnapped My Twins And I Begged Them Not To Bring Them Back

I cried the whole way home. Some stranger had seen me at my lowest. Had helped me. Had been kind. It felt like a miracle.

But that wasn’t the end. Two weeks later, I saw him again. Same grocery store. Different day. He was in the produce section. Saw me and nodded. Didn’t come over. Didn’t say anything. Just acknowledged me.

This kept happening. Every two weeks or so, I’d see him. Sometimes at the grocery store. Once at the gas station. Once at the park where I’d take the twins. He never approached me. Just nodded. Like he was checking on us.

It should have been creepy. But it wasn’t. It felt protective. Like having a guardian angel who wore leather and rode a Harley. Then three months after that first meeting, everything fell apart. My mom had a stroke. Severe. She couldn’t watch the kids anymore. She couldn’t even take care of herself.

I couldn’t afford daycare. Not for twins. Not on what I made. I was going to lose both my jobs. We were going to lose our apartment. I was sitting in my car in that same grocery store parking lot, crying so hard I couldn’t breathe, when someone tapped on my window.

It was him. The biker. “You okay?” he asked through the glass. I rolled down the window. Started word-vomiting everything. My mom. The stroke. No childcare. Losing my jobs. Losing our home.

He listened without interrupting. When I finished, he said, “Give me your phone number.” I hesitated. “Not for anything weird,” he said. “I might be able to help.”

I gave it to him. What did I have to lose? He left. I drove home. Cried some more. Put the kids to bed. Stared at the ceiling wondering how we’d survive.

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