I’m a 58-year-old biker named Mike. I’ve got tattoos covering both arms, a beard down to my chest, and I ride with the Defenders Motorcycle Club.

I volunteer at Children’s Hospital every Thursday reading books to sick kids. It’s something our club started doing fifteen years ago after one of our brother’s granddaughters spent months in pediatric oncology.

Most kids are scared of me at first. I get it. I’m big and loud and look like I should be in a motorcycle gang movie, not a children’s hospital. But once I start reading, they forget about how I look. They just hear the story.

That’s what I thought would happen with Amara.

I walked into room 432 on a Thursday afternoon in March. The nurse had warned me this was a new patient. Seven years old. Stage four neuroblastoma. No family visits in the three weeks she’d been admitted.

“No family at all?” I’d asked.

The nurse’s face had gone tight. “Her mother abandoned her here. Dropped her off for treatment and never came back. We’ve been trying to reach her for weeks. CPS is involved now but Amara doesn’t have any other family. She’s going into foster care once she’s stable enough to leave.”“And if she’s not stable enough?”

The nurse looked away. “Then she’ll die here. Alone.”
I stood outside room 432 for a full minute before I could make myself go in. I’ve read to dying kids before. It never gets easier. But a kid dying completely alone? That was a new kind of hell.

I knocked softly and pushed open the door. “Hey there, I’m Mike. I’m here to read you a story if you’d like.”

The little girl in the bed turned to look at me. She had the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen. Her hair was gone from chemo. Her skin had that grayish tone that means the body is struggling. But she smiled when she saw me.

“You’re really big,” she said. Her voice was small and raspy.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” I held up the book I’d brought. “I’ve got a story about a giraffe who learns to dance. Want to hear it?”

She nodded. So I sat down in the chair next to her bed and started reading.

I was halfway through the book when she interrupted me. “Mr. Mike?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”“Do you have any kids?”

The question hit me hard. “I had a daughter. She passed away when she was sixteen. Car accident. That was twenty years ago.”

Amara was quiet for a moment. Then she asked, “Do you miss being a daddy?”

My throat tightened. “Every single day, honey.”

“My daddy left before I was born,” she said matter-of-factly. “And my mama brought me here and never came back. The nurses say she’s not coming back ever.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. What do you say to a seven-year-old who’s been abandoned while dying?

Amara kept talking. “The social worker lady said I’m going to go live with a foster family when I get better. But I heard the doctors talking. They don’t think I’m getting better.”

“Sweetheart—”

“It’s okay,” she said. Her voice was so calm. Too calm for a seven-year-old. “I know I’m dying. Everyone thinks I don’t understand but I do. I heard them say the cancer is everywhere now. They said maybe six months. Maybe less.”I set the book down. “Amara, I’m so sorry.”

She looked at me with those huge eyes. “Mr. Mike, can I ask you something?”

“Anything, honey.”

“Would you be my daddy? Just until I die? I know it’s not for very long. But I always wanted a daddy. And you seem nice. And you miss being a daddy. So maybe we could help each other?”

I felt like someone had punched me in the chest. This little girl, dying and alone, was trying to help ME. Trying to make her own abandonment about giving me something.

“Sweetheart,” I said, and my voice was shaking. “I would be honored to be your daddy.”

Her whole face lit up. “Really? You mean it?”

“I mean it. For however long you need me, I’m your dad.”

She held out her small hand. I took it gently. Her fingers were so thin. So fragile.

“Okay, Daddy,” she said. And then she smiled the biggest smile. “Can you finish reading me the story?”I picked up the book with my free hand, still holding hers with the other. My vision was blurry from tears but I kept reading. And when I finished, Amara asked me to read another one. So I did.

I read to her for three hours that day. Read until she fell asleep, her hand still holding mine.

When I finally left, the nurse stopped me in the hallway. “That was the happiest I’ve seen her since she got here. Thank you.”

“I’m coming back tomorrow,” I told her. “And the day after that. And every day until… until she doesn’t need me anymore.”

The nurse’s eyes filled with tears. “You’re a good man, Mike.”

I shook my head. “I’m just a dad who misses his little girl. And now I’ve got another little girl who needs a dad.”

I came back the next day. And the next. And the next.

I started arriving at 2 PM every day and staying until visiting hours ended at 8 PM. Six hours a day with Amara. Reading stories. Watching cartoons. Playing simple games when she had the energy. Just sitting quietly and holding her hand when she didn’t.The nurses started calling me “Amara’s dad.” The doctors would give me updates on her condition like I was actual family. CPS stopped looking for foster placement because technically Amara had family now. Me.

Two weeks in, Amara asked me another question. “Daddy Mike, do you have a picture of your daughter? The one who died?”

I pulled out my wallet and showed her. “This is Sarah. She was sixteen here. This was taken a week before the accident.”

Amara studied the picture carefully. “She’s really pretty. She looks nice.”

“She was the best kid in the world,” I said. “Smart and funny and kind. She wanted to be a veterinarian. Loved animals more than anything.”

“I bet she loved you a lot.”

“I hope so. I loved her more than life itself.”

Amara handed back the picture. “Daddy Mike, do you think Sarah would be okay with you being my daddy now? I don’t want her to be sad.”I lost it then. Just started crying right there in that hospital room. This dying little girl was worried about my dead daughter’s feelings.

“Baby girl,” I said through my tears. “Sarah would love you. And she would be so happy that I found you. That I get to be a daddy again.”

Amara reached up and patted my face. “Don’t cry, Daddy. It’s okay. We found each other.”I called my club president that night. “Brother, I need the club’s help. I’ve got a situation.”

Within twenty-four hours, fifteen of my brothers had visited Amara. Brought her stuffed animals and books and toys. Made her an honorary member of the Defenders MC. Gave her a tiny leather vest with her name on it.

Amara’s room went from empty and sterile to filled with life. Filled with family.

My club brothers started taking shifts. Someone was always there with her. If I couldn’t make it one day, another brother would sit with her. Read to her. Be her uncle or her grandpa or whatever she needed.

She was never alone again.

Three months in, Amara started getting worse. The cancer was spreading faster than the doctors had predicted. She was in more pain. Sleeping more. Eating less.

One night I was sitting with her, reading Goodnight Moon for the hundredth time, when she stopped me.

“Daddy Mike, I need to tell you something.”

“What is it, baby girl?”

“I’m not scared anymore. I was really scared before. Scared of dying alone. Scared nobody would remember me. Scared I didn’t matter.” She squeezed my hand weakly. “But you made me not scared. You and all my uncles. You made me feel like I matter.”

“You matter more than anything in this world, Amara. You matter to me. You matter to all your uncles. You changed all of our lives.”

“Good,” she said. “Because you changed mine too. I got to have a daddy. I got to have a family. Even if it’s just for a little while.”

“It’s not just for a little while,” I told her. “You’re my daughter forever. Even after… even after you’re not here anymore. You’ll always be my daughter.”

She smiled. “Forever?”

“Forever, baby girl.”

Amara died on a Saturday morning in June. I was holding her hand. Three of my brothers were in the room with us. She went peacefully, no pain, just slowly stopped breathing while we sang her favorite song.

The hospital let us have a memorial service in the chapel. Over two hundred bikers showed up. We filled that chapel and the hallway and spilled out into the parking lot.

Every single person who’d met Amara in her three months at that hospital came. Nurses. Doctors. Janitors. Other patients’ families. The woman who delivered food trays. Everyone.

Because in three months, this little girl had touched hundreds of lives. Had shown all of us what courage looked like. What love looked like. What faith looked like.

CPS had finally tracked down Amara’s mother. She didn’t come to the memorial. Didn’t even call. But she signed papers releasing Amara’s body to me. The social worker who handled it cried while telling me.

“In thirty years of doing this job,” she said, “I’ve never seen anything like what you did for that little girl. You gave her something no one else could. You gave her a father’s love.”

We buried Amara in the cemetery where my daughter Sarah is buried. Put her right next to Sarah’s grave. Because Amara was right—Sarah would have loved her. And now they’re together.

The headstone reads: “Amara ‘Fearless’ Johnson. Beloved Daughter. Forever Loved by the Defenders MC and her Daddy Mike.”

That was four years ago. I still visit her grave every Sunday. Still read her stories. Still tell her about my week and what her uncles are doing.

And every Thursday, I still go to Children’s Hospital and read to sick kids. But now it’s different. Now when kids ask if I have children, I say yes. I have two daughters. One in heaven for twenty-four years. One in heaven for four years. Both forever in my heart.

The nurses at the hospital started a program because of Amara. It’s called the Defender Dads program. Volunteers who commit to being a consistent presence for hospitalized kids who don’t have family. Who show up every day or every week and be whatever that kid needs—a dad, a grandpa, an uncle, a friend.

Sixty-two men have gone through the training. They’ve been matched with over a hundred kids in four years. Kids who were dying alone now die surrounded by people who love them.

All because one little girl asked a scary-looking biker if he could be her daddy until she died.

I didn’t save Amara. I couldn’t save her from the cancer. Couldn’t save her from dying.

But she saved me. Saved me from the grief that had been eating me alive for twenty years. Saved me from feeling like I’d never be a father again. Saved me from the emptiness.

For three months, I got to be a daddy again. Got to read bedtime stories and hold a small hand and hear someone call me dad. Got to love and be loved.

That little girl gave me the greatest gift of my life. She gave me purpose again. She gave me healing. She gave me hope.

People see a tough biker when they look at me. They see tattoos and leather and assume I’m hard. Dangerous. Someone to avoid.

But Amara saw something else. She saw a daddy. She saw someone safe. She saw someone who could love her.

And she was right.

I was her daddy. I am her daddy. I’ll always be her daddy.

Because once you’re someone’s father, you don’t stop being their father just because they’re gone. You carry them with you. You honor them. You live in a way that makes them proud.

Every book I read to a sick kid, I’m reading to Amara. Every hand I hold, I’m holding hers. Every child I comfort, I’m comfing her.

She asked if I could be her daddy until she died. But the truth is, I’ll be her daddy forever. Death doesn’t end that bond. It just changes it.

And every single day, I thank God that a dying seven-year-old girl looked at a scary biker and saw a father. Because being Amara’s dad, even for just three months, was the greatest honor of my life.

She was my daughter. She is my daughter. She will always be my daughter.

And I will love her until the day I die and hopefully forever after that too.

Eric and I married young. I was 20. He was 31. Back then, the age gap didn’t scare me because I thought his maturity would balance out my optimism. Instead, it turned into a dynamic where he acted like the king of the household and I was expected to bow down and manage everything he couldn’t be bothered to do.

By 32, I’d spent a decade cooking, cleaning, soothing toddlers through fevers, folding endless loads of laundry, juggling a part-time job, and pretending I wasn’t drowning. Meanwhile, Eric strutted around like his paycheck was some divine offering and he was doing me a favor by giving me a family.

He loved telling people, “I take care of everything so Katie can stay home with the kids.”
Translation: I expect her to do every damn thing so I don’t have to lift a finger.

Lily’s ten. Brandon’s five. Both sweet, smart, and energetic. They deserve a dad who actually cares, but they got Eric—who never changed a diaper, never attended a school conference, and couldn’t tell you their shoe sizes if his life depended on it.I let it go for years. Yes, I was furious. Yes, I felt trapped. But I didn’t want to blow up the marriage if there was any chance he’d wake up and participate.

Then one afternoon, I was heading out to meet a friend for a rare hour of adult conversation.

“Eric, can you watch the kids? Just an hour.”

His eyes stayed glued to the  TV.
“I’m tired. Worked all week. Take them with you.”

“They’ll be fine. I need a break.”

“Moms don’t get breaks,” he said, as casually as if he were reciting the weather. “My mom didn’t need breaks. Neither did my sister.”I froze. “So your sister never felt overwhelmed?”

“She managed. You should too.”

The rage I swallowed could’ve melted steel.
But I walked out anyway, needing the fresh air more than ever.

A week later, he dropped the bomb.

“We should have another baby.”

I almost laughed. “Eric, we can barely handle the two we have.”

“You know how it works. We’ve done it twice.”Exactly. I did it twice. He just showed up at the end of the process and took credit.

“I do everything,” I said. “I’m exhausted.”

“I work. That’s enough.”

It was like talking to a wall with a superiority complex.

And of course, right when the argument started heating up, his mother Brianna and sister Amber arrived—perfect timing, as always. They never came to see me or the kids; they came to worship the ground Eric walked on and critique anything I dared to say.

When Brianna heard the topic, she gasped dramatically.“A man doesn’t like to feel criticized by his wife.”

Amber chimed in, “You sound spoiled. Women have done this for centuries.”I stared at both of them, amazed at their complete inability to see reality.

“You both survived motherhood by suppressing how you actually felt. I won’t do that.”

That didn’t go over well.

That night, Eric came home late, more worked up than before.
And instead of having an adult conversation, he threw the final punch.

“You know what? Pack your things and leave.”It was like he expected me to collapse into tears and beg for forgiveness.

Instead, I looked him in the eyes and asked one simple question:

“What about the kids?”

“You’re not taking them.”

I nodded. “Good. They stay here. Whichever parent stays in this house is the parent responsible for raising them.”

He blinked, thrown off.
Eric loved the idea of being a father.
He just didn’t want any of the reality attached to it.“You’re not leaving them with me,” he said, panic creeping into his voice.

“Oh, but you’re the one who kicked me out, remember? So you stay. You raise them. You do everything I do.”

His face drained of color.
Suddenly Mr. “Parenthood Is Easy” wasn’t so confident.

He tried to backpedal, of course. Called me later. Tried to rewrite the argument. Tried to make me feel guilty.

But the next morning, I filed for divorce.

And reality hit him like a brick.

If he didn’t want me in the house, then by default, he was the custodial parent—something he absolutely didn’t want. He wanted the illusion of family, not the actual responsibility.So he signed everything.

I kept the house.
I got full custody.
He pays child support every month.
And, for the first time in years, my life feels like mine again.

Eric thought he was punishing me by kicking me out.
Instead, he gave me the shove I needed to walk away from a life where I did everything and got nothing back.

The kids are thriving. The house is calm. I sleep better.
I finally see that the problem wasn’t me “complaining”—the problem was me trying to make a marriage work with someone who never showed up.If Eric ever wants another child, he’ll have to do it with someone willing to raise three kids alone.

I’m not that woman anymore.

It’s beyond — I wouldn’t wish what I went through on my worst enemy because it’s tough when you almost…when it’s almost over when you see the tunnel.” He humorously recalled the experience, “JAMIE FOXX SICK AT HOSPITAL BED !

It was hot in that tunnel!” Foxx emphasized newfound respect for life and his art, encouraging others not to give up on their creative endeavors.

So far, 95 cases of illness have been reported, with more expected as testing and tracking continue. The outbreak has affected multiple states, raising concerns about food safety and distribution practices.

The contaminated eggs were produced by Country Eggs, LLC and distributed in cartons labeled Large Brown Cage Free Sunshine Yolks. These cartons were shipped to food distributors and eventually sold to consumers across state lines.

Investigators confirmed that the same eggs were also repackaged and sold under other brand names, including Nagatoshi Produce, Misuho, and Nijiya Markets. This makes it more difficult for consumers to immediately recognize if they purchased affected products.

Symptoms of salmonella infection typically include diarrhea, fever, stomach cramps, nausea, and vomiting. While most healthy adults recover without treatment, the infection can be serious or even life-threatening for young children, elderly adults, and people with weakened immune systems.

The CDC and FDA are urging consumers to check their egg cartons carefully and avoid eating eggs from the listed brands. If you discover recalled eggs at home, they should be thrown away or returned to the place of purchase. Surfaces and containers that touched the eggs should be thoroughly cleaned.

Health officials also reminded the public of basic food safety practices, such as cooking eggs until both the yolk and white are firm, avoiding raw or undercooked egg dishes, and washing hands and utensils after contact with eggs.

The investigation is ongoing, but officials stress that quick consumer action is key to preventing further illness. Anyone experiencing severe or prolonged symptoms after eating eggs should seek medical attention immediately.

sparking a flurry of speculation.Social media users jumped in with their guesses.

Was it a kitten? A baby squirrel? Some thought it could be a bunny, a ferret,

a puppy, or even a mink.

Others joked that it resembled a miniature teddy bear or perhaps a visitor from another planet.

As it turned out, the mystery animal was a newborn female, estimated to be just three or four days old.

She had a few minor wounds on her small body. Interestingly, her rescuer wasn’t a person, but a dog.

The pup had gently carried the tiny creature in its mouth and brought her to safety.

So, what was this strange little animal?

To everyone’s surprise, she was a domestic rabbit, not a wild animal.

This added to the confusion because domestic rabbits are rarely found on their own in nature, and there were no known rabbit breeders or rabbit owners in the area.

The rescuers explained an important difference between wild and domestic rabbits: wild rabbits are born with fur and their eyes open, while domestic rabbits arrive into the world blind and hairless.

To help people understand, the Heart of the Forest team also shared a comparison photo showing a newborn wild bunny next to the rescued domestic one.

How the baby rabbit ended up alone in the wild remains a mystery, but thanks to the instincts of a caring dog and the quick response of animal rescuers, she’s now safe and getting the care she needs.

If this heartwarming story brought a smile to your face, consider sharing it with others to spread a little wonder and compassion.

When the pain worsened, coaches immediately removed him from the field and called emergency services. Paramedics rushed him to the nearest hospital, where doctors worked urgently to stabilize him. Despite their efforts, his condition deteriorated rapidly, and he passed away, leaving family, friends, and staff in shock.

The boy’s family described him as passionate about football, dedicated, and encouraging to others. Authorities are reviewing medical findings, while the school and football club provide counseling for students and teammates. A memorial at the team’s stadium is being planned to honor his memory and the joy he brought to the sport.

The FBI official told the Daily Mail that the records include the classified annexe to former Special Counsel John Durham’s final report on the beginnings of the FBI investigation into Donald Trump’s initial campaign, which includes the underlying intelligence he reviewed.

Durham looked into the FBI’s investigation into any connections between Trump campaign officials and Russia during the 2016 election and came to the conclusion that, given the information available at the time, the FBI shouldn’t have started the inquiry.

A source with knowledge of the finding told the Daily Mail that the documents were probably saved from destruction due to a mistake made by earlier directors.The individual went on to say that if the FBI hadn’t been methodically going through everything it encounters at the bureau, it’s probable that the records would never have been spotted.

According to the FBI spokeswoman, the results will be made public later on Wednesday after being sent to Republican Senator Chuck Grassley of Iowa, the head of the Judiciary Committee.

According to President Trump, he was in favour of the information being made public.“I want everything to be shown, as long as it is fair and reasonable,” he said.

“I would like to see people exposed that might be bad, and we’ll see how that all works out,” he told reporters at the White House.But if the FBI had something, “they would have released it,” the president remarked.

He reiterated his long-standing accusation that Democrats were responsible.

“The whole thing is a scam. It is a scam set up by the Democrats,” Trump said.

Fox News was the first to report on the discovery.

A ‘burn bag’ is a safe container that government organisations employ to destroy sensitive or classified documents, usually by shredding or burning them to keep unwanted access at bay.

Once one of the FBI’s most outspoken critics, Patel has begun reorganising the agency, which includes reassigning some top agents and terminating others.

He pledged a “wave of transparency” at the start of his term, especially on the probe into potential connections between the Trump campaign in 2016 and Russia.

Known as ‘Crossfire Hurricane,’ the FBI conducted a counterintelligence investigation into any connections between Russia and Trump’s initial presidential campaign.

According to Durham’s report, the inquiry was “seriously flawed,” but no proof of criminal activity was found.

Additionally, his study refuted Trump’s assertion that special counsel Robert Mueller’s report was a “hoax” or a “witch hunt.”

Mueller’s report found the FBI investigation “did not establish that members of the Trump campaign conspired or coordinated with the Russian government in its election interference activities,” but it did find Russian interference in the 2016 contest that it claimed benefitted Trump.

In contrast, Trump has frequently asserted that the FBI’s investigation into the 2016 election was a witch hunt.

Throughout the federal government, his devoted followers have been looking for proof to corroborate his assertion.

In an interview with podcast host Joe Rogan in June, Patel claimed to have discovered a room filled with computer hard drives and documents “that no one had ever seen or heard of.”

“Just think about this,” Patel told Rogan. “Me, as director of the FBI, the former ‘Russiagate guy,’ when I first got to the bureau, found a room that [former FBI director James] Comey and others hid from the world in the Hoover Building, full of documents and computer hard drives that no one had ever seen or heard of. Locked the key and hid access and just said, ‘No one’s ever gonna find this place.”

Since then, Patel and his team have been going over the documents.

Additional Trump officials are coming forward with information related to the election of 2016.

Trump’s head of national intelligence, Tulsi Gabbard, said last week that Russian President Vladimir Putin has classified material about Hillary Clinton and intended to use it against her when she was president.

She asserted that intelligence reports for the government showed that Russia genuinely desired a Clinton win in 2016.

“This report shows Putin … held back from leaking compromising material on Hillary Clinton prior to the election, instead planning to release it after the election,” Gabbard said.

“The intelligence community intentionally suppressed intelligence that showed Putin was saving the most damaging material that he had in his possession about Hillary Clinton until after her potential and likely victory,” she noted.

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Supporters argue that the policy could give millions of families a head start toward savings, college funding, or even retirement planning. They say it represents a forward-looking approach to economic empowerment.Critics, however, have raised concerns about the risks of tying government-funded accounts to market volatility, as well as questions over funding sources and long-term management.

Still, the announcement has ignited debate over how public policy can best address wealth inequality, with some analysts calling it one of the most ambitious wealth-building experiments in U.S. history.Whether it becomes a cornerstone of Trump’s legacy or a lightning rod for controversy, the program signals a new frontier in the intersection of government policy and personal finance.