The first time I saw her, Sarah Mitchell was standing in a grocery store parking lot, tears streaming down her face, clutching her exhausted little daughter. In front of them was my stolen 1978 Harley Davidson — the bike I had spent years restoring with my son, Tommy, before Afghanistan took him from me.
Sarah had no idea it was mine. She was trying to sell it for $8,500, the exact amount she needed for her daughter Emma’s experimental cancer treatment. For three months, I had scoured police reports, classifieds, and dead-end leads searching for that Harley — my last tangible connection to Tommy.
When I arrived at the parking lot, I expected confrontation. Instead, I found desperation. Sarah explained her situation: her daughter had neuroblastoma, insurance had run out, and this Harley was all she had left. She showed me medical documents, treatment plans, and pictures of Emma before she got sick.
Emma, tiny and frail, looked up at me. “Mister, do you like motorcycles? My mommy’s is the prettiest. Sometimes she lets me sit on it and pretend I’m flying.”
It was the same sound Tommy used to make on the Sportster. Every instinct screamed to reclaim the bike. But justice felt different staring at a child fighting for her life.
I made a choice. “I’ll buy it. But there are conditions.”
Sarah blinked, stunned. “Anything.”
We sat on the curb as I told her the story of Tommy and the Harley — our weekends in the garage, the cross-country rides we’d planned, and the sacrifices he’d made overseas. Her face paled as she realized the bike’s history.
“You’ll listen,” I said. “My son died protecting people he never knew. He’d want me to choose her.”
Read Part 2
