A Biker Visited My Comatose Daughter Every Day for Six Months – Then I Found Out His Biggest Secret

“You… know my name?”

“Jenna told me,” he said. “She also told me not to bother you unless you wanted to talk.”

We sat in two plastic chairs.

“Well, I’m talking now,” I said. My voice was shaking. “I’ve seen you here every day. For months. You hold my daughter’s hand. You talk to her. I need to know who you are and why you’re in her room.”

He glanced toward 223, then back at me.

“Can we sit?” he asked, nodding toward the waiting area.

I didn’t want to, but I also didn’t want to scream in the hallway, so I followed him.

We sat in two plastic chairs.

It was like my brain cut out for a second.

He rubbed his beard, took a breath, and looked me in the eye.

“My name is Mike,” he said. “I’m 58. I’ve got a wife, Denise, and a granddaughter named Lily.”

I waited.

“And?” I said.

He swallowed.

“I’m also the man who hit your daughter,” he said. “I was the drunk driver.”

“It was my truck.”

It was like my brain cut out for a second.

“What?” I asked.

“I ran the red light,” he said. “It was my truck. I hit her car.”

Everything in me went hot, then cold. I didn’t want to believe who I was talking to. We’d dealt with the case through lawyers. I didn’t want to see him. I had been too heartbroken to deal with it all. And I’m sure he was too ashamed to show his face.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I said. “You did this to her and you come in here and talk to her—”

“I pled guilty,” he cut in quietly. “You know how quick the court case was. Ninety days in jail. Lost my license. Court-ordered rehab. AA. I haven’t had a drink since that night.”

He didn’t try to argue.