Two weeks later, I was told I had a visitor.
I expected my lawyer.
Instead, I walked into the visitation room and froze.
On the other side of the glass sat an older man with a long gray beard and a leather vest covered in motorcycle patches. His hands were rough and scarred. In his arms, wrapped in a pink blanket, was my daughter.
My knees nearly buckled.
“My name is Thomas Crawford,” he said. “I was with your wife when she passed.”
The words hit hard.
He explained that he volunteered at the hospital, sitting with patients who had no one else. He had been called to Ellie’s room. She was alone. She spoke about me. About our daughter. She made him promise that Destiny wouldn’t grow up in the system.
“I gave her my word,” he said.
CPS didn’t make it easy. Nearly seventy. Single. Motorcycle club member. Not their idea of a typical foster parent. But he fought. He brought character witnesses. Hired an attorney. Completed every class and background check required. After weeks of scrutiny, he was granted emergency foster custody.
“I told the court I would bring her to see you every week,” he said. “Until you’re released.”
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