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The biker my family warned me about has been bathing my disabled brother every day for three years while the rest of us were too ashamed to help.
His name is Marcus and he’s covered in tattoos, wears a leather vest with a skull on the back, and rides a motorcycle so loud it shakes our windows. And he’s the only reason my brother Tommy is still alive.
My brother had a stroke four years ago. He was fifty-two years old, worked construction his whole life, strongest man I ever knew. One morning he was lifting beams.
By that afternoon he couldn’t move the left side of his body. Couldn’t walk. Couldn’t feed himself. Couldn’t use the bathroom alone.
The doctors said he’d need full-time care for the rest of his life.
Our family held a meeting. Mom was too old and frail. My sister lived three states away. My other brother said he couldn’t handle “that kind of thing.” Everyone looked at me.
I’m ashamed to admit what I said. “I have my own family. My own kids. I can’t take care of him full-time.”
We put Tommy in a care facility. Told ourselves it was for the best. That professionals could help him better than we could. That we’d visit every week.
We didn’t visit every week. We visited once a month. Then once every few months. Then holidays only.
Tommy called me crying one night. “Please get me out of here. They don’t help me. They leave me sitting in my own waste for hours. Please, I’m begging you.”
I said I’d look into it. I didn’t.
Six months later, I got a call from the facility. Tommy had been found unconscious. Dehydrated. Covered in bedsores. They’d neglected him so badly he almost died.
The guilt nearly killed me. I’d abandoned my brother. Left him to rot in a place that didn’t care about him. All because helping him was too hard. Too uncomfortable. Too inconvenient.
I brought Tommy to live with me. But I quickly realized I was in over my head. I couldn’t lift him. Couldn’t bathe him properly. Couldn’t give him the care he needed while also working and raising my kids.
That’s when Marcus showed up.
He lived three houses down. I’d seen him coming and going on his motorcycle. Seen the leather vest and the tattoos. My wife told the kids to stay away from him. “That’s the kind of man who causes trouble,” she said.
One afternoon, I was struggling to get Tommy from his wheelchair into the house. My back was giving out. Tommy was crying from embarrassment. And I was about to drop him.
“Need a hand, brother?”
I looked up and saw Marcus walking toward us. This big, intimidating biker with arms like tree trunks.
“I got it,” I said. Pride. Stupid pride.
“No you don’t.” Marcus stepped in, gently took Tommy’s weight, and lifted him like he weighed nothing. Carried him right into the house. Set him down in his chair so carefully, so tenderly.
“I’m Marcus,” he said to Tommy. “I live down the street. What’s your name?”
“Tommy.” My brother’s voice was quiet. Ashamed.
“Good to meet you, Tommy. You need anything, you let me know. I’m retired. Got nothing but time.”
I thanked him awkwardly. Expected that to be the end of it.
The next morning at 7 AM, there was a knock on my door. Marcus. “Thought Tommy might like some company while you get ready for work.”
He came back the next day. And the next.
Within a week, Marcus had taken over Tommy’s morning routine. He’d show up at 6
, help Tommy to the bathroom, bathe him, dress him, make him breakfast. All before I even woke up.
“You don’t have to do this,” I told him one morning.
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