The motorcyclist who hit my son came to visit him every day—until the day my son finally woke up and spoke his first word.
The man who put my son in the hospital walked through those doors again today, and I swear, for a moment, I wanted to kill him. It’s been forty-seven days since the accident. Forty-seven days since my twelve-year-old boy, Jake, was hit crossing the street. Forty-seven days in a coma. And every one of those…