I was running late to pick up my son, Mateo, from school when traffic stopped at a crosswalk. A long line of motorcycles blocked the road—loud engines, black jackets, and serious faces. For a moment, I sighed, assuming it was some kind of group ride or event slowing everyone down.
Then I saw her.
A tiny elderly woman stood at the curb, leaning on a tennis ball-tipped cane, holding a small cloth shopping bag. She looked so fragile beside the row of bikes.
That’s when one of the bikers—tall, bearded, covered in tattoos—turned off his engine and got off his motorcycle. Without saying a word, he offered her his arm. Another biker stepped into the street, holding out his hands to stop traffic so she could cross safely.
The old woman smiled, her face lighting up like sunshine. Together, they walked slowly across four lanes while everyone waited. No one honked. No one complained.
Something shifted in me watching that. It wasn’t guilt—just a realization that I’d been on autopilot, seeing people as I expected, not as they truly were.
Then one of the bikers noticed me watching. He walked up to my car window and tapped gently. I flinched, reaching for the door lock out of instinct. He saw it, gave a small nod, and said softly, “You good?”
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