She hit post, put her phone down, and we went back to living our little life.
I thought that would be the end of it.
It wasn’t.
Three days later, my phone rang with an unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Ma’am, my name is Robert Torres,” a deep voice said. “I’m the president of the Iron Warriors Motorcycle Club.”
If I’m honest, my first image was leather vests, bar fights, and a chorus of “Born to Be Wild.”
“Okay…” I said cautiously.
“I saw your sister’s post about your daughter and the dance,” he continued. “I’m calling because we’d like to help.”
“Help how?” I asked, my distrust doing battle with a little spark of hope.
“How many girls are at that school who don’t have dads to take them?” he asked. “Girls who got the same answer your little girl did?”
“I… I don’t know,” I said.
“Find out,” he said. “Get us a number. Every one of those girls is going to that dance. And they’re going to have the best dates in the room.”
I actually pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“Dead serious, ma’am,” he said. “We’ve got riders who would be honored to give those girls one good night. You say the word, and we start organizing.”
“Why?” I blurted. “You don’t know us.”