Little Girl Handed Biker A Note Saying “He’s Not My Daddy, Please Help”

to me. Shoved the crumpled paper into my palm. Then ran back before he turned around.

I looked down at the note. Crayon on the back of a gas station receipt. The handwriting was shaky but clear: “He’s not my daddy. Please help. My real mommy is Sarah. He took me from the park. Please.”

My blood turned to ice.

I’m sixty-three years old. Rode motorcycles continue reading …