brotherhood. I wanted to be like you.” The irony, the pain, the love. Six months later, I’m still here. My son calls daily, the grandkids visit every weekend, and his club brothers drop in just to check on me. Sarah made sure I wasn’t alone. Last week, my son and I rode together for the first time in fifteen years, to Sarah’s grave. “Thanks, Mom,” he said, tears in his eyes, “For not giving up on us.” I laid my hand on her headstone, a silent promise. People call bikers outlaws, but fifteen of them broke into my house and saved my life, working for free, spending their own money and time, because love doesn’t always wear a suit. Sometimes, it wears leather and rides a Harley. Next month, three hundred bikers will join a memorial ride for Sarah, a woman they never met, because she loved hard enough to keep her family together, even from the grave. I’ll be riding with them, on the bike my son gave me, wearing the vest his club made for me. An honorary member. A proud father. A man who got his family back, because his wife refused to let him die with her. Those bikers broke into my house while I was at my wife’s funeral, and they didn’t steal anything. They gave me my life back.
