I wish I could say that I was the kind of mother I want to be: calm, understanding, and open-minded. But the truth is that fear got the best of me. And I almost damaged the one buddy my child had.
It all started on a gloomy Tuesday afternoon at Maple Ridge Park, the same park my daughter Lily and I had been going to almost every day for five years. Lily is now seven years old. When she was two, doctors said she had severe, nonverbal autism. Since then, the world has been a terrifying and unpredictable place for her. She has a very structured day: same shoes, same snacks, same path, same time.
Every day about 3:00 PM, we walk up the crumbling concrete walkway to the swings, where the hopscotch squares are fading. It’s the only thing that genuinely calms her down. She doesn’t play it the way most people do, of course. For minutes at a time, she hops, skips, or stands still on one square. When she wants to, she lays down next to them and brushes her fingers over the chalk numbers. It’s a safe place for her.
That day, though, he was there.
There was no way not to see him right away. He was a big guy, maybe 300 pounds and more than six feet tall. He had skull tattoos all over his arms and neck, and he wore a leather vest and denim pants. His beard was gray and lengthy, and it almost touched his chest. He sat quietly on the bench in the park next to the hopscotch squares, hands folded, and just stared.
Not her—just staring at the world.
My caution bells went off immediately away. What was he doing here? This wasn’t a motorcycle bar; it was a park for kids. I couldn’t stop looking at him that day. I clasped Lily’s hand more tightly than usual. He didn’t say anything.
But he came back the day after that. And the next one. Every time, at 3:00 PM.
I knew something was wrong on the fourth day. Did he watch the kids? Was he following someone? Was he seeking for an opportunity? I had a lot of ideas going through my head.
But then Lily did something she had never done before.
She let go of my hand and ran straight to him.
She didn’t look back. She didn’t think about it. She went right up to the tall man and took his hand. And just like that, she led him to the hopscotch squares.
He went after.
This big guy then started to jump.
He had enormous, heavy boots on, black pants, rings on his fingers, and tattoos that went from his knuckles to his collarbone. He was jumping on one foot next to my child.
And what about Lily? She laughed.
The kind of laugh that makes your whole body tremble and your head fly back. I hadn’t heard it since before the diagnosis, when she was just two. I couldn’t handle that laugh. I stayed still, crying and shaking my hands. I was torn between a huge sense of relief and growing fear.
What kind of guy plays hopscotch with a girl he doesn’t know?
What was really going on?
I lost it. I did what I thought a good mother would do.
I called the police.
The dispatcher was calm. She wanted to know if the man had hurt Lily in any way. I answered, “No.” Did he mention anything that made you feel in danger? I said no. She asked again whether there was a crime. I said I didn’t know, but I was afraid.
They called the police. Lily and the man were still bouncing as the patrol car pulled into the parking lot. She was having a terrific time. He smiled softly and didn’t make a fuss or look around. Being there, in her rhythm.
Two police officers walked up to him. They asked him questions. He rose up slowly, with his palms out in peace. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Lily noticed the change in tone, and her happiness turned to confusion.
Next came the cuffs.
Lily started to scream.
It wasn’t the usual breakdown from too much excitement. This was worse—deep, primal, and heartbroken. She ran up to him, tried to grasp his vest, and pulled on the cops. She was crying and making noises I didn’t know she could make. A loud cry, like a scream or a request for help.
I had never seen her treat someone else that way. Not even to me.
The police officer looked at me. I must have looked just as afraid.
At that point, the man, who was as calm as ever, spoke for the first time.
He said in a quiet voice, “She calls me Graybeard.” ” My granddaughter had autism. Not talking either. We played hopscotch every day. I don’t talk to your girl. I don’t touch her. One day, she strolled up to me and took my hand without saying anything. I didn’t have the guts to say no.
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything.
The cops looked at each other. One of them took off their cuffs.
The younger one said to me, “Ma’am, this man hasn’t done anything wrong.”
I nodded. Not fast. I was so embarrassed that my face was on fire. I wanted to dig a hole and hide in it.
They let him go, and he waved at Lily once before turning around and departing. She knelt down on the sidewalk and wept.
A little bit later, the cops left. I just held her. I couldn’t tell you what I had done.
The next day, I wasn’t sure if he would return. I wasn’t sure I wanted him to. But Lily kept telling us to go to the park.
And there he was.
It’s three o’clock. Same place.
She ran to him again, and as she took his hand and brought him to the hopscotch squares, he grinned. This time, I sat on the other side of the bench from them. He followed her lead without saying a word. When she jumped, he jumped. When she was motionless, he was still.
We talked over time. Thomas was the one. His granddaughter called him “Graybeard” before she died from a seizure two years ago. He hadn’t been to a park since then. Until Lily.
He said once, “She made me think of her.” “Same eyes.” Same quiet strength.
Lily plays with him every afternoon. I bring more food. He gives her old chalk so she can paint the squares again if the rain washes them away. They don’t have to talk to each other.
They talk by moving. In person. In hopscotch.
That call makes me feel horrible. I guess I always will.
But I’ve also learnt something important: not all protectors look like what we assume they should. People that look intimidating on the outside are sometimes the nicest people you’ll ever meet.
I almost took away my daughter’s only real friend.
I sit on a nearby bench and watch her dance in chalk squares next to a biker with a gray beard and skull tattoos. I’ve never been safer.