I filed a restraining order against the biker who kept showing up at my autistic son’s school every single day at 3 PM.
For six months, this massive, tattooed stranger in a leather vest had been waiting outside Lincoln Elementary in the parking lot, and my twelve-year-old son Daniel would run to him like they were long-lost family.
The school counselor said she’d never seen Daniel smile before he started meeting this man, but I didn’t care – my son couldn’t communicate properly, couldn’t tell me who this person was or why he was there, and I was terrified.
When I finally got security footage and took it to the police, demanding they arrest this predator who was clearly grooming my vulnerable child, the officer looked at the screen, then looked at me, and said six words that made my whole world collapse: “Ma’am, that’s your son’s father.”
That was impossible. Daniel’s father had died eleven years ago. I’d identified the body myself after the motorcycle accident. I’d buried him. I’d raised Daniel alone through every sleepless night, every meltdown, every therapy session.
“No,” I said firmly. “My husband died in 2012. You have the wrong person.”
Officer Martinez pulled up something on his computer and turned the screen toward me. “Marcus Webb. Age 43. Reported deceased in motorcycle accident, 2012.
