47 Bikers Showed Up To Walk My Son To School After His Daddy Died

I stood frozen in my doorway. Jim never let anyone touch his helmet. It was his grandfather’s from World War II, modified and passed down through generations. The fact that these men had somehow gotten it and restored it without my knowledge should have made me angry. Instead, I felt something crack inside my chest.

“You fixed it?” I whispered, reaching out to touch the pristine black surface where I knew there had been scratches, dents, worse.

“Took us three months,” Bear said. “Had to call in favors from brothers all over the country. Custom paint guy from Sturgis. Leather worker from Austin for the interior. Chrome specialist from…” He stopped, swallowing hard. “Jim was our brother. This is the least we could do.”

Tommy had crept up behind me, peeking around my leg at the men filling our yard. Some I recognized from happier times – weekend barbecues, charity rides, Jim’s birthday parties. Others were strangers, but they all wore the same expression of determined purpose.Continue reading…