When my wife Ellie died just thirty-six hours after giving birth, I was sitting in a prison cell sixty miles away, helpless and grieving. I was serving eight years for a terrible mistake — armed robbery — and I knew the consequences were mine to bear. But nothing prepared me for the moment the prison chaplain told me Ellie was gone and that our newborn daughter, Destiny, had been taken by Child Protective Services. With no family and no rights left to fight with, I feared she would enter the same foster care system that shaped my own childhood. Then, weeks later, an unexpected visitor appeared: an older biker named Thomas Crawford, wearing a leather vest and carrying my baby in his arms. He told me he had been with Ellie when she died, holding her hand so she wouldn’t leave this world alone, and had promised her he would protect Destiny until I could.
Thomas fought harder than anyone I had ever known. He convinced CPS to grant him emergency foster custody, completed inspections and classes, and showed up at that prison every week — rain, snow, heat, didn’t matter — to hold my daughter up to the glass so I could watch her grow. For three years, he drove hours each way with a car seat strapped to the back of a  motorcycle club member’s truck, determined to keep his promise to my wife. Through that glass, I watched Destiny’s first smile, heard her tiny voice say “Da-da,” and felt a kind of hope I thought prison had beaten out of me. Thomas sent letters and photos constantly, filling my cell with updates, drawings, and milestones. Everyone in the prison — even the toughest men — eventually called him “the real deal,” because no one had ever seen loyalty like that.
