I’m 42. I drive a Lexus. I wear suits to work. I’ve never talked to a homeless person in my life. Until that night.
October 17th. My anniversary. I’d just left Morton’s Steakhouse after the worst dinner of my life. My wife told me she wanted a divorce. Twenty years of marriage—over. She left me with the check and an Uber ride home. I sat alone, stunned, before finally driving off, taking the long way to avoid my empty house.
That’s when I saw him.
Under the overpass where Third Street meets the highway, a small candle flickered. A massive man—leather vest, gray beard, tattoos—sat cross-legged on a piece of cardboard. Next to him, a yellow lab mix, old and gray around the muzzle. Between them was a pizza box holding a tiny birthday cake.
And the biker was singing.
“Happy birthday to you… happy birthday dear Ranger…”
His voice cracked. The dog’s tail wagged slowly. The man wiped his eyes. I couldn’t stop crying.
I pulled over. He looked at me cautiously, hand near his belt. But when he saw my suit, my wedding ring, my watch, he relaxed just enough.
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