The Biker Found Two Kids Waiting At The Bus Stop With A Note That Said “Please Take Care Of Them”

Two little blonde girls sitting alone at a bus stop with a note saying: “Please Take Care Of Them”. My riding brother Jake and I were heading back from our Saturday morning coffee run when we saw them.

They were wearing matching neon yellow safety shirts, the kind construction workers wear. At 7 in the morning, there wasn’t another soul around.

Jake slowed his bike first, and I pulled up beside him. Something wasn’t right. Kids that young don’t sit at bus stops alone.

As we got closer, I saw the younger one was crying, and the older girl had her arm around her sister’s shoulders.

Between them sat a brown paper bag and a blue balloon tied to the bench. Jake and I exchanged looks, killed our engines, and walked over slowly so we wouldn’t scare them.

“Hey there, little ones,” Jake said gently, crouching down to their level. “Where’s your mama?”

The older girl looked up at us with the most heartbreaking eyes I’d seen in my sixty-three years. She pointed to the paper bag. “Mama left us a note for someone nice to find.”

My stomach dropped. Jake reached for the bag carefully while I kept watch on the girls. Inside was a loaf of bread, two juice boxes, a change of clothes for each girl, and a folded piece of notebook paper.

Jake’s hands shook as he opened it. His face went white as he read, and then he handed it to me without a word.

The note was written in desperate, barely legible handwriting: “To whoever finds Lily and Rose—I can’t do this anymore. I’m sick and I have no family and no money.

They deserve better than dying with me in our car. Please take care of them. They’re good girls. I’m so sorry. Their birthdays are March 3rd and April 12th.

They like pancakes and bedtime stories. Please don’t let them forget me but please give them a life. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.”

That was it. No name, no phone number, no address. Just two little girls in bright yellow shirts so someone would notice them, with a balloon so they’d look like they were going to a party instead of being abandoned.

I looked at Jake and saw tears running down into his beard. In forty years of riding together, through funerals and fights and everything in between, I’d never seen Jake cry.

“What’s your names, sweethearts?” I asked, my voice cracking. “I’m Lily,” the older one said. “She’s Rose. She don’t talk much ’cause she’s shy.

Our mama said someone nice would find us and take us somewhere safe. Are you nice?” Jake let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob.

“Yeah, baby girl. We’re nice. We’re gonna take care of you.”

I pulled out my phone to call 911, but Jake grabbed my wrist. “Wait. Just… wait one second.”

He wiped his eyes and looked at those two little girls sitting there with their paper bag of belongings and their balloon, and I knew exactly what he was thinking. Because I was thinking it too.

We’re both old bikers. Never had kids of our own. Jake’s wife left him thirty years ago because he couldn’t have children. I lost my fiancée before we ever got the chance.

We’d spent our whole lives being the scary-looking guys that parents pull their kids away from.

And here were two little girls whose mother had trusted that someone—anyone—would be kinder to her babies than she could be in whatever hell she was living.

“We should call,” I said quietly. “They need police, family services, people who know what they’re doing.”

Rose, the younger one, suddenly spoke for the first time. “Don’t want police. Want you.” She reached out and grabbed Jake’s vest with both tiny hands. “You stay.”

Jake completely broke. This huge, tattooed, bearded biker who looked like he could break a man in half, just crumpled

He pulled both girls into his arms and hugged them like they were the most precious things in the world. “I got you,” he whispered. “I got you both. You’re safe now. I promise.”

I called 911 and explained the situation. Within ten minutes, three police cars and a family services van arrived. A kind-looking woman named Patricia came over with a clipboard.

“We’ll take the girls to a temporary placement while we try to locate family members,” she said gently. “You gentlemen did a wonderful thing stopping.”

Lily and Rose both started crying. “No no no,” Lily said, gripping Jake’s vest tighter. “We want to stay with the motorcycle men. Please. Mama said someone nice would find us and you found us and you’re nice and we want you.”

Patricia looked uncomfortable. “I understand, sweetie, but that’s not how it works. These men are strangers. We have trained foster families—”

“How long will it take to find family?” Jake interrupted. Patricia hesitated. “Based on the limited information… it could be weeks or months. If we can’t locate anyone willing to take them, they’ll enter the foster system.”

I watched Jake’s face, and I knew what he was about to do. “What if we wanted to be emergency foster placement?” he asked.

“Right now. Today. Whatever paperwork, whatever background checks, whatever you need. We’ll do it.” Patricia looked shocked. “Sir, it’s not that simple. There’s a certification process, home studies, training—”

“How long?” Jake’s voice was firm. “How long for emergency temporary placement while you do all that?”

Patricia glanced at her supervisor, who had walked over. They had a quiet conversation I couldn’t hear. Finally, the supervisor spoke.

“Given the unusual circumstances and the children’s attachment response to you… if you both pass immediate background checks and have suitable housing, we could potentially approve a temporary emergency placement for 72 hours while we expedite the fostering process. But I’ll be honest, gentlemen—this is highly irregular.”

“Run the background checks,” I said. “We’re both veterans, clean records, own our homes. We’re members of the Veterans Motorcycle Club. We do charity rides for children’s hospitals. You’ll find we’re exactly who we say we are.”

Jake added, “And we’re not letting these little girls go to strangers when they’ve already been abandoned once today. Not happening.”

It took four hours. Four hours of paperwork and phone calls and background checks while Lily and Rose sat between us on that bench, eating bread and drinking juice boxes.

Jake went to the store and came back with real food—chicken nuggets and apple slices. I bought coloring books and crayons. We made silly faces and told them stories about our motorcycles until they smiled.

When Patricia finally came back, she was holding papers. “Gentlemen, I don’t know if you realize what you’re taking on. These children have trauma. They’ll need therapy, stability, patience—” “We know,” Jake said. “And they’ll have it.”

That was three months ago. Jake and I are now officially licensed foster parents. We take parenting classes on Thursday nights.

Our biker brothers built bunk beds for Jake’s spare room and painted it pink with white daisies. Lily starts kindergarten next month. Rose talks now—she won’t stop talking, actually. They call us “Mr. Jake” and “Mr. Tommy.”

We never found their mother. Police located an abandoned car matching the description two counties over. Inside were clothes, empty medicine bottles, and a photo of two blonde little girls.

They’re still searching, but it’s been months. The working theory is she was terminally ill with no support system and made an impossible choice.

Last weekend was Rose’s fifth birthday—April 12th, just like the note said. Our entire motorcycle club showed up with presents and balloons. Blue balloons, because that’s Rose’s favorite color now.

She sat on my lap in the park while Jake held Lily, and someone took our picture. Both girls were wearing their safety yellow shirts because they love them, and they were laughing, and we were laughing, and I looked at Jake and saw he was crying again.

“You okay, brother?” I asked quietly. He wiped his eyes and smiled. “Yeah. Just thinking about that morning. What if we’d ridden past? What if we hadn’t stopped?” I squeezed Rose a little tighter. “But we did stop. And they’re here. And they’re ours.”

Lily looked up at Jake. “Mr. Jake, why are you leaking?” That’s what she calls crying—leaking. Jake laughed and kissed the top of her head. “Because I’m happy, baby girl. Happiest I’ve ever been.”

The adoption paperwork was filed last week. No family ever came forward, and we’re told that in six months, it should be finalized. Lily and Rose will legally be ours. Two old bikers who never thought they’d be fathers, raising two little girls who needed them as much as we needed them.

People still stare when we roll up to school or the grocery store—two huge, tattooed bikers with two tiny blonde girls. Let them stare. These are our daughters. They chose us that morning at the bus stop, and we chose them right back.

Last night, Lily asked me if we were going to leave them like their first mama did. I got down on one knee and looked her in the eyes. “Never. You’re stuck with us forever. Think you can handle that?” She wrapped her arms around my neck. “Forever and ever?” “Forever and ever.”

Sometimes I think about their mother and that note. “Please don’t let them forget me but please give them a life.”

We won’t let them forget. We have that photo, and we’ll tell them the truth when they’re ready. We’ll tell them their first mama loved them so much she made sure they’d be found by someone who could give them what she couldn’t.

And we’ll tell them that sometimes the family you need finds you at a bus stop on a Saturday morning. With a paper bag, a blue balloon, and two scared bikers who didn’t know their lives were about to change forever.

Rose still sleeps with that blue balloon—deflated now, but she won’t let us throw it away. “It’s from the day we got our daddies,” she says. And she’s right. That’s exactly what it’s from.