Sarah had been gone fourteen months. Breast cancer took her at forty-three. We’d been married twenty years — a good, simple life, built around our kids and her work as a pediatric nurse.
But nothing about her connected to a leather-clad biker with tattooed arms and steel in his eyes.
And yet, there he was. Every Saturday. Grieving like he’d lost the love of his life.
The Confrontation
Three months passed before I gathered the courage to approach him.
That day was bright and windless. He was in his usual place when I walked up, my chest tight with anger and confusion.
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice harsher than I meant. “I’m Sarah’s husband. Who are you?”
He didn’t startle. He didn’t even look defensive. He just rose slowly to his feet. Up close, he was bigger than I expected — tall, broad, the kind of man who looked like he’d lived a hard life. But his eyes were red, wet with tears.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just came to say thank you.”
“Thank you?” I asked. “For what?”
