At 7 AM, forty-seven engines rumbled up our driveway. Not to intimidate. To protect. To heal. My son, Tommy, hadn’t left the house since the funeral.
Then he heard them—his father’s biker brothers. At the front stood Bear, holding Jim’s helmet, restored and shining. Inside was a note: “To my boy, Tommy—if you’re reading this, I didn’t make it home. But you’re never alone. My brothers will be your shield.”
That morning, bikers escorted Tommy to school. Day after day, they rode with him until he smiled again. Others joined—veterans, widows, kids—forming a new family. In time, Tommy stood proud, helmet in hand, saying, “I’m not scared anymore. That’s what a hero is.”
Sometimes, love rides in on Harleys.
