The Little Boy Who Drew “Come Home, Dad”

Cole froze beside his motorcycle when he saw the drawing taped across his fuel tank.

A biker. A woman. A little boy.

Three figures drawn in crooked crayon lines, with a bright red sun hanging over their heads.

Beneath them, in uneven blue letters, were four words.

*COME HOME, DAD.*

“What the hell?”” Cole whispered.

The chrome motorcycle gleamed in the bright afternoon sunlight outside the roadside diner. Conversations continued around the outdoor tables. A waitress carried a tray of burgers through the open door. Two Black bikers near the sidewalk laughed about something that had happened on the highway.

But Cole heard none of it.

He stared at the drawing as if somebody had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart.

A tiny flame had been drawn on the biker's wrist.

Cole slowly lifted his own hand.

Under the edge of his black leather vest, the muscles in his forearm tightened. His riding glove creaked as he flexed his fingers.

Then he looked across the parking area.

A little Black boy stood beside one of the outdoor tables, clutching a battered box of crayons against his chest.

Seven years old, maybe. Curly hair. Worn blue hoodie. Sneakers with fraying laces.

The boy looked terrified.

He also looked as though he had been waiting for this moment his entire life.

Cole pulled off his sunglasses.

“Hey, little man.””

The boy's shoulders rose.

Cole pointed toward his motorcycle.

“Did you draw on my bike?””

The child lowered his eyes.

“Yes, sir.””

“You know that ain't something you just do to somebody's property, right?””

The boy nodded quickly.

“I know. I'm sorry.””

Cole took two slow steps toward him.

The boy tightened both hands around the crayon box. A red crayon slipped through a crack in the cardboard and landed on the pavement.

Neither of them moved to pick it up.

“Then why'd you do it?”” Cole asked.

The child swallowed.

“My mom said my dad rides one.””

Cole stopped.

For a moment, the only sound was the distant rumble of traffic passing along the highway.

“Your dad?”” Cole repeated.

The boy nodded.

“She's got pictures of motorcycles in an old box. She said my dad used to ride before he left.””

Cole glanced over his shoulder at the drawing.

“What's your name?””

“Malik.””

“I'm Cole.””

“I know.””

Those two words landed harder than Cole expected.

He studied the boy's face. There was something familiar about the shape of his eyes, the slight crease between his eyebrows, the way he pressed his lips together when he was nervous.

But children could resemble strangers. Memory could make a man see things that weren't there.

Cole had spent eight years teaching himself not to look backward.

He'd built his life around that decision.

Now a little boy in a faded blue hoodie was standing in front of him, holding a box of crayons and looking at him as if he might be the answer to a question nobody had ever answered.

Cole pointed at the drawing.

“Why'd you put that symbol on the biker's wrist?””

Malik glanced at the picture.

“Mom said my dad had a fire on his arm.””

Cole's stomach tightened.

“A fire?””

“A little one. Like a flame.””

Cole looked down at his wrist.

He slowly removed his riding glove.

There it was.

A small black flame tattoo, just above the wrist bone. The lines were slightly faded, but the design was unmistakable.

He had gotten it years ago, back when he still believed that some promises could survive anything.

Malik stared at the tattoo.

His mouth fell open.

“That's it.””

Cole couldn't breathe properly.

“What?””

“The fire.”” Malik pointed at Cole's wrist with a trembling finger.

“That's the one Mommy showed me.””

A chair scraped against the concrete behind them.

One of the bikers at the outdoor tables had noticed the exchange.

“Cole?”” the man called.

“You good over there?””

Cole didn't answer.

He crouched until he was eye level with Malik.

The boy smelled faintly of crayons, laundry detergent, and the sweet syrup that came with diner pancakes.

Cole forced himself to speak calmly.

“Malik, I need you to tell me something.””

“Okay.””

“Who is your mother?””

The boy reached into the front pocket of his hoodie.

“She said my dad left before I was born.””

Cole's jaw tightened.

“Did she tell you his name?””

Malik shook his head.

“She said talking about him made her sad.””

The child pulled out a small photograph.

Its corners were soft and bent, and a pale crease ran diagonally across the middle. Someone had handled it so often that the glossy surface had nearly worn away.

Malik held it with both hands.

“This is the only picture she lets me keep.””

Cole reached for it.

His fingers brushed Malik's.

Then he looked down.

The woman in the photograph stood beside a younger Cole, her head tilted against his shoulder. Her smile was wide, her eyes bright, and one hand rested over the flame tattoo on his wrist.

Cole knew that smile.

He knew the little silver necklace at her throat.

He knew the way her left eyebrow lifted slightly whenever she was about to tease him.

He had once believed he would grow old looking at that face.

Eight years ago, he had watched her walk away from him.

Or at least, that was what he had always believed.

Cole's hand began to shake.

Malik noticed.

“Do you know her?””

Cole opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

The woman in the photograph was Elena Brooks.