I know how it sounds: bikers kidnapped my twins, and I begged them not to bring them back. But hear me out.
My name’s Sarah. I’m a single mom to three-year-old twins, Anna and Ethan. Their father left when they were six months old. I work two jobs, my mom watches the kids during the day, I watch them at night. We’re barely surviving—but we survive.
That Tuesday started like any other. $47 in my account, five days till payday, and a shopping list: diapers, milk, bread. Simple. But at the register, the total was $52. My face burned. My hands shook. People waited. I had to put something back.
Then a voice—deep, rough, commanding but calm:
“The bread stays. I got it.”
I turned. Six-foot-four, tattoos, leather vest, a beard down to his chest. He handed the cashier fifty dollars, bagged my groceries, and loaded them into my car. Then he knelt in front of my twins.
“You two need to be good for your mama,” he said softly. “She’s working hard for you.”
And just like that, he walked away.
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