We held her memorial in the hospital chapel. Two hundred bikers. Nurses. Doctors. Families. Everyone who had seen Lila’s courage came. Her mother never did.
When asked who would take her body, I stepped forward. “She’s my daughter,” I said. “I’ll take her home.”
We buried her next to Sarah. Two daughters, forever side by side.
Four years later, I still visit her. Still talk to her. Still read to the children in the hospital.
When one asks, “Do you have children?” I say proudly, “I have two daughters. They live in heaven.”
Because of Lila, the Defender Dads program exists now. Rough men trained to love and comfort children with no one else. Over a hundred kids have been touched by her spark of hope.
She asked me to be her daddy until she died.
But the truth is:
I am her father until the day I die. And after.
She’s mine. My daughter. Forever.
