The flashing lights in my rearview mirror made my stomach drop. I was tired, hungry, and my bike was barely holding together—the last thing I needed was a ticket. But the officer who stepped out didn’t scold me. He studied me for a moment, then asked, “Did you know your father saved my life?”
My dad had died five years earlier, and suddenly, here was a man who knew him in ways I didn’t. Ray, his old partner, shared stories that made my dad feel alive again: his laugh, his stubbornness, the way he’d sneak snacks into their patrol car.
Before driving off, Ray gave me his card. “Call me anytime,” he said. The next day, I found a folded note hidden in my bike—“Keep moving forward.” Was it a coincidence? I didn’t think so.
I called Ray, and we talked for hours. He helped me fix my bike and, in doing so, helped me heal. Months later, when I started teaching kids bike repairs, Ray showed up to watch. “Your dad’s smiling right now,” he told me.
That night on the roadside, I thought my luck had run out. Instead, I found a connection I never knew I needed.
