“What does the fairy wear?” she asked.
Ellie described wings, a silver dress, a crown, glittering boots, pink lip gloss, and a wand topped with a star.
I looked at my wife.
She looked away because she was laughing.
The following morning, I visited three costume stores.
Nothing fit.
At the fourth store, an elderly clerk sold me two fairy costumes and suggested sewing them together. I spent the night learning what a seam allowance was.
Mack from the club helped attach the wings.
He took photographs.
I threatened him.
The next morning, dressed in silver fabric over faded jeans, I rode toward Riverbend Children’s Hospital with the wings strapped inside a pickup truck driven by Rico.
I had granted nothing yet.
But for the first time since the relapse, I knew exactly what my daughter needed me to do that day.
Say yes first.
The costume created problems before I entered the hospital.
The crown was too small. The dress pulled beneath my arms. Glitter from the wings transferred onto everything I touched, including the truck door, my boots, Rico’s steering wheel, and half my beard.
Rico parked two blocks away because he refused to unload me near the main entrance.
“Brotherhood has limits,” he said.
“You sewed the wings.”
“Under protest.”
I walked.
People stared. Several filmed. A teenager laughed until I looked toward him, then pretended to inspect a vending machine.
At Riverbend’s entrance, security stopped me.
The wand was plastic, but its star-shaped end appeared pointed from a distance. The officer asked me to set it down for inspection.
I refused too quickly.
The wand mattered because Ellie had chosen it during happier months. She used it to bless motorcycles inside my shop. I had carried it from home wrapped inside a towel.
Nobody was taking it.
The officer saw a large, agitated biker refusing instructions.
I saw someone delaying my daughter’s fairy.
“Put it down.”
“Check it in my hand.”
“Sir.”
“I’m already late.”
Visitors gathered. Phones rose. One mother moved her child away from me. A second security officer approached from behind.
Nurse Diane recognized me and intervened.
She explained the costume, but the officers still needed to follow procedure. I finally allowed Diane to hold the wand while they inspected it.
That should have ended the problem.
Then an officer asked me to remove the wings because they exceeded the elevator’s width.
“No.”
“They can be carried upstairs.”
“She asked for wings.”
“You can put them back on outside her room.”