Pro-bono lawyers started calling the motorcycle clubhouse around the clock. We managed to secure an emergency foster placement. For two grueling weeks, a traumatized little boy with a raw ankle slept on my couch in the suburbs, asking why his mama couldn’t afford a doctor.
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How do you tell a seven-year-old that his mother chose death over medical debt that would ruin his life? You simply don’t. You just hold him tight while he cries himself to sleep.
The official custody hearing was a total war zone. The grandfather’s high-priced attorney called our club a dangerous criminal gang. They tried to paint Sarah as an unfit, crazy woman whose letter meant absolutely nothing.
But they didn’t expect our entire community to show up. Sarah’s unpaid oncologist testified to her absolute clarity and sanity. The lady from the corner diner talked about how our club always paid for kids’ meals.
