A Biker Showed Up At My Wife’s Grave Every Week And I Had No Idea Who He Was

Sarah died fourteen months ago. Breast cancer. She was forty-three. We’d been married twenty years. Two kids. A good life. A quiet life.

She was a pediatric nurse. She volunteered at church. She drove a minivan. Her idea of rebellion was ordering a triple shot in her latte. There was nothing in her past that connected her to a biker.

But this man — this stranger — mourned her like he’d lost someone irreplaceable. I saw it in the way his shoulders trembled. In the reverence of his silence.

After three months, I couldn’t take it anymore. I got out of my car and walked toward him.

He heard me coming but didn’t turn. Just kept his hand on Sarah’s headstone.

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