School Called Police On Biker Whom My Daughter Was Feeding Her Lunch Every Day

But beside him on the ground was a brown paper bag. And scattered around it were dozens of small items. Little things. Trinkets.

I walked closer. Looked down. And my heart shattered.

There were handmade drawings. At least thirty of them. Crayon pictures of a motorcycle. Of a man with a beard. Of a little girl with brown hair holding hands with the bearded man. Each one signed “Love, Lily” in wobbly kindergarten handwriting.

There were notes. Simple words that Lily must have worked so hard to write. “I hope you have a good day.” “You are nice.” “Dont be sad.” “Your my friend.”

There were small toys. Happy meal prizes. Stickers. A friendship bracelet made of yarn.

And there were photographs.

That’s what made the teachers cry. A stack of photographs, worn at the edges from being handled so often. Photos of a little girl who looked almost exactly like Lily. Same brown curly hair. Same bright smile. Same pink backpack.

But it wasn’t Lily.

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