She was a pediatric nurse. She volunteered at church. She drove a minivan. Her idea of rebellion was ordering a triple shot in her latte. There was nothing in her past that connected her to a biker.
But this man — this stranger — mourned her like he’d lost someone irreplaceable. I saw it in the way his shoulders trembled. In the reverence of his silence.
He heard me coming but didn’t turn. Just kept his hand on Sarah’s headstone.
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “I’m Sarah’s husband. Can you tell me who you are?”Continue reading…
