I never imagined my wife’s funeral would be the moment my life changed again. Still dressed in my black suit, clutching the folded flag from Sarah’s casket, I arrived home to fifteen motorcycles parked in my driveway and my back door kicked in.
My neighbors had called the police twice. I could hear power tools running inside. My grief was raw. My heart was broken. I’d just buried my wife of thirty-two years… and now someone was tearing apart the house I had left behind.
I stepped through the door, ready for confrontation, prepared to fight anyone. But what I found stopped me in my tracks.
Seven bikers were installing cabinets. Three were painting my living room. Two were fixing my broken porch. One was on the roof patching holes I couldn’t afford to repair.
And there, at the kitchen table, crying over a photo, was my son — the boy I hadn’t spoken to in eleven years.
“Dad,” he said, voice cracking, “I’m so sorry.”
I couldn’t make sense of it. He explained: Sarah had called him months before she got sick. She knew I’d fall apart after her death. She made him promise to help me, no matter our history.
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