No one expected fifty bikers to show up at my son’s funeral. Least of all the four teenagers responsible for putting him in the ground.
I’ve never been one to cry. Twenty-six years pushing a mop through high school hallways taught me how to bottle things up, keep my head down, and carry on. But the moment that first Harley rolled into the cemetery, low and growling like thunder on the horizon, followed by another… and another… until the earth itself seemed to tremble—I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The dam broke.
