If you mean English translation of the French version, here it is:

I saw him again today outside my son’s hospital room… and in that moment, I had only one desire left: to kill that man.

Forty-seven days.

Forty-seven endless days since our family’s life turned into a nightmare. Forty-seven days that my twelve-year-old son, Daniel, had lain motionless, trapped in a coma, connected to machines breathing for him. Every beep from those monitors reminded me how quickly a life can fall apart.

And through all forty-seven days, he was there.

The biker.

The man who hit my son.

The man I believed had destroyed our lives.

I hated him so much it made me dizzy.

The first days after the accident are a blur in my memory. I only remember sirens, the smell of the hospital, my boy’s blood-stained sneakers, my wife’s screams, and the doctor’s cold words:

“We’re doing everything we can…”

The police tried explaining what had happened. They repeated the same facts over and over.

The biker wasn’t speeding.
He wasn’t drunk.
He didn’t run.
He called emergency services himself.
He performed CPR on my son right there on the pavement.

But none of that mattered to me.

My child was in a coma.

And that man was still alive.

Daniel had run into the street chasing his ball. Witnesses said it happened in less than a second. One moment he was laughing… the next, his small body was thrown across the asphalt.

The first time I saw the biker, I thought I was looking at a monster.

A huge man with a gray beard, tattoos covering his hands, an old leather vest covered in patches. He sat beside my son’s bed… reading Harry Potter aloud.

Daniel’s favorite book.

I froze in the doorway.

“Who are you?” I whispered, my voice shaking.

The man slowly stood up. There was no anger or arrogance in his eyes. Only exhaustion… and unbearable guilt.

“My name is Thomas,” he said quietly. “I’m the one who hit your son.”

I lunged at him without thinking.

I remember nurses screaming, security guards pulling me away, the taste of blood in my mouth… but he didn’t even fight back.

He just stood there and took the blows.

“Get out!” I screamed. “If I ever see you near my son again, I’ll kill you!”

The head nurse ordered him to leave the ward. At that moment, I was certain I would never see him again.

But the next morning, he was back.

Sitting in the same chair.

Holding the same book.

I wanted to call the police, demand a restraining order, erase him from our lives.

But my own wife stood against me.

Sarah.

Her face looked exhausted, her eyes swollen from crying.

“Let him stay…” she whispered.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Are you insane?! That man destroyed our family!”

She burst into tears.

“It was an accident… He didn’t abandon Daniel. He stayed with him until the ambulance arrived. He comes here every day because he feels guilty…”

But I didn’t care about his guilt.

Every night I stared at my motionless son lying in that hospital bed, feeling as though my own heart had stopped beating.

The doctors told us coma patients sometimes hear the voices around them. They urged us to talk to him, play his favorite songs, remind him why he needed to come back.

I couldn’t do it.

Every time I tried speaking, I fell apart.

So Thomas spoke instead.

Every single day.

He told Daniel about motorcycle trips.
Empty highways.
Places he had traveled.
Mistakes he regretted.
And most of all… he told him to keep fighting.

Sometimes he simply sat in silence, holding my son’s hand.

And that only made me angrier.

Then one night, everything changed.

I returned to the hospital late. Sarah was asleep in the chair. The room was dim.

Thomas was alone beside the bed.

And I heard him whisper:

“You have to wake up, kid… please… You didn’t do anything wrong… I should have been paying better attention…”

Then he began to cry.

Not quiet tears.

No.

That enormous, scarred man cried like a shattered child.

And suddenly, he said something that froze my blood.

“I already lost one son… I can’t lose another.”

The next day, I asked about him.

I discovered he had lost his own boy ten years earlier. A drunk driver had killed his thirteen-year-old son.

After that tragedy, Thomas collapsed.

Alcohol.
Loneliness.
Depression.

He left his family and spent years riding across the country, trying to outrun a grief too heavy to survive.

And now fate had forced him to relive his worst nightmare.

Only this time… from the other side.

I hated myself for beginning to understand him.

A few days later, the impossible happened.

That evening, Daniel’s favorite song played softly in the room. Sarah was asleep. Thomas was reading quietly.

Then suddenly, the machines started beeping wildly.

My son’s fingers moved.

Once.

Then again.

The nurses rushed in.

“He’s responding!”

Sarah woke up screaming.

I grabbed my son’s hand.

And slowly… Daniel opened his eyes.

It was the most terrifying and most beautiful moment of my life.

I was crying.
Sarah was crying.
Even the doctors had tears in their eyes.

Thomas remained standing in the corner of the room, as if he didn’t dare come closer.

Then Daniel whispered weakly:

“Where’s… the biker?”

Everyone turned.

Thomas stepped forward slowly.

My son looked at him for a few seconds and whispered:

“Thank you… for saving me.”

And in that moment, something inside me broke.

All my hatred.
All my rage.
All my desire for revenge.

Because I finally understood the truth.

That man hadn’t destroyed my son’s life.

He had done everything he could to save it.

And while I dreamed of killing him…
he was praying every day that my boy would survive.