While three grown men laughed and pinned him down, my eight-year-old son was nearly b:eat:en to d:ea:th in his grandfather’s driveway. Rushing to the emergency room, all I heard the doctors whispering were terrifying words like brain swelling and concussion…

your haven have places to ride bikes?” he asked his grandmother.

Eleanor let out a watery, beautiful laugh. “Miles of them, my darling.”

“Okay,” Toby decided. He grabbed the handlebars of his yellow bike. “Then I think you can stay.”

A year later, the ribbon was cut on the Toby Sinclair Haven. There were no press corps, no politicians fishing for photo continue reading …