— “Mom left a note for someone kind,” she said in a trembling voice.

My heart tightened. Thomas carefully picked up the bag while I stayed close to them. Inside were a loaf of bread, two juice boxes, a change of clothes, and a folded sheet of notebook paper.

The note, hastily written, read:

“To whoever finds Élodie and Clara — I can’t go on anymore. I’m sick, alone, and broke.
They deserve better than to die with me in our car. Please take care of them. They are good girls. I’m so sorry…
Their birthdays are March 3 and April 12. They love pancakes and bedtime stories.”

No name, no address — just two little girls in yellow, with a balloon to help someone notice them, someone who might be kinder than life had been to their mother.

I looked at Thomas. Tears were running down his beard. In forty years of riding the roads together, I had never seen him cry.

— “What are your names?” I asked, my voice breaking.

— “Élodie,” said the older one. “She’s Clara. She doesn’t talk much because she’s shy.”

— “Mom said someone kind would come for us. Are you kind?”

Thomas let out a shaky laugh through his tears.

— “Yes, sweetheart. We’ll take care of you.”

We called emergency services, but Clara clung to Thomas’s vest:

— “Not the police. You. Stay.”

And then Thomas broke down — that big tattooed biker with the soft heart — wrapping both girls in his arms.

The police and social services arrived quickly. Patricia, a social worker, explained that they’d go to a foster family, but the girls refused to leave. They wanted to stay with us.

After hours of paperwork and checks, we were allowed to take them in temporarily. During those four hours, we shared bread, juice, stories, and laughter. Little by little, Élodie and Clara began to open up.

Three months later, we officially became their foster parents. Thomas built bunk beds in their room, decorated with white flowers on a pink background. Élodie will start kindergarten soon, and Clara now talks nonstop. They call us “Mr. Thomas” and “Mr. Thomas-Marie.”

We never found their mother. The authorities discovered an abandoned car, but not her. Their birthdays have become family celebrations — with our entire biker club joining in. Clara still keeps her blue balloon, a reminder of the day she chose us.

Today, they are our daughters. And every time I see Thomas cry tears of joy, I think back to that morning at the bus stop — the day our lives changed forever, simply because we decided to stop.