Six Bikers Walked Out Of The Maternity Ward With My Dead Sister’s Newborn Baby

The nurse looked uncomfortable. “They said your sister arranged it six months ago. They had a notarized custody agreement. They had her signature.”

I felt like the floor was crumbling beneath me. Sarah had never mentioned bikers. Never mentioned any arrangement. She’d told me I would raise her baby if anything happened to her. We’d talked about it dozens of times.

“This has to be a mistake,” I whispered. “Or a forgery. Sarah would never give her baby to strangers. To bikers.”

The nurse handed me a sealed envelope. “They left this for you. Said your sister wrote it. Said it would explain everything.”

My hands were shaking as I took the envelope. Sarah’s handwriting was on the front. My name. Catherine. Just my name in her loopy cursive.

I tore it open.

Dear Cat,

If you’re reading this, I’m gone. I’m so sorry. I knew there was a chance I wouldn’t survive the delivery. The doctors warned me about my heart condition. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry.

I need to tell you something I should have told you years ago. Something about the baby’s father…….

The letter continued:

The baby’s father is Marcus Thompson. You never met him. I never told anyone about him because I was ashamed. Not of him—of how we met.

Three years ago, when I was homeless and living under the bridge on Fifth Street, Marcus found me. He was a biker. Part of the Iron Guardians MC. He brought me food. Brought me blankets. Eventually brought me to the club’s shelter for homeless women.

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