While I was at my wife’s funeral, bikers broke into my house. I found fifteen motorcycles parked in my driveway and my rear door knocked in when I got home.
The cops had been summoned by my neighbors twice. I could hear power equipment running in my house.
I was still in my funeral clothes. I still kept the folded flag that was on Sarah’s coffin. I had recently buried my wife of 32 years, and now someone was tearing down my house.
I walked through the rear door that had been kicked in, ready to attack whoever was there. I didn’t care anymore. Sarah was no longer there. What else could they get from me?
What I found in my kitchen made me hold my breath.
Seven cyclists were putting up new cabinets. Three more were painting the inside of my house. Two were fixing my porch, which had been deteriorating for five years. One was on my roof fixing holes I couldn’t afford to fix.
My youngster was seated at my kitchen table, weeping and staring at a picture.
My kid, whom I hadn’t talked to in eleven years.
When he spotted me, he said, “Dad.” His voice broke. “I’m so sorry, Dad.”
I didn’t get it. None of this made sense. “What are you up to? What brings you here? How did you know?
He got up. He had on a vest made of leather. Patches I had never seen before. A club I had never heard of. ” Mom called me three months ago. Before she got sick. “She made me promise something.”
My wife had cancer that was in the fourth stage. From diagnosis to death, it took six months. She had been hiding how sick she was until she couldn’t anymore. She wouldn’t allow me to call our son. She always said, ‘He made his choice.'” “He made the choice to leave.”
But it seems like Sarah made a different option when she knew she was about to die.
My son’s hands were shaking. She called me and said, “When I’m gone, your father is going to fall apart.” He won’t eat. Will not sleep. Will not take care of himself or the house. “He’ll give up.”
He cleaned his eyes. “She told me, ‘I need you to make sure he doesn’t give up. I don’t care if you two haven’t talked. I don’t care about your or his pride. You need to help him, and you will.
I couldn’t talk. This was something Sarah had done. Had this in mind. Had gotten in touch with the son who had cut us out of his life.
“I told her I would,” my son said. “But I didn’t believe I could handle being alone with you. I asked my club, then. I told them about you. About Mom. About everything.
He pointed to the bikers who were working all over my house. “These are my brothers.” And they offered to help.
A big guy with a gray beard who was one of the motorcyclists came over. “Mr. Patterson, your wife was very clear about what you needed. She gave your son a list. You need new kitchen cabinets since yours are coming apart.
Paint the living room because it makes you think of better times. Fixing the roof. Fix the porch. “Remodel the bathroom.”
He gave me a piece of paper. My wife’s writing. A long list of all the problems with our residence. Everything I hadn’t been able to fix because I was too exhausted, too broke, or too sad.
She wrote at the bottom, “Make sure he has a reason to stay in this house.” Make sure it doesn’t feel like a grave. Tell my hubby that I adore him.
I let go of the flag. Let it drop to the floor. I couldn’t hold anything anymore. I fell down because my legs gave out, and my son caught me. We both knelt down in my half-renovated kitchen, and for the first time in eleven years, I held my son.
“I’m sorry,” I cried. “I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry I wasn’t the dad you needed.
“No, Dad.” Sorry. I was the one who left. I was too proud and dumb to come back. He was crying just as much as I was. “Mom told me everything.” She informed me about the additional work you did while I was in college. About selling your truck. You rejected the promotion since it would have meant moving away from my school.
I had never told him any of that. Sarah had kept my secrets for thirty years.
“I walked away over one stupid argument, and she said you gave up everything for me.” My son stopped and stared at me. “I don’t even remember what we were fighting about, Dad. ” Isn’t that crazy? “I lost eleven years with you, and I can’t even remember why.”
It was about his decision to join a motorcycle club. I was scared. Told him that bikers were bad. That he was wasting his life. That I didn’t teach him to be that way.
The same things folks said to me when I was younger and rode. The same bias I had to deal with. And I had turned around and flung it at my own son.
“I was wrong,” I said. “I was so wrong.” I was afraid and said horrible things.
“We both said awful things.” My son helped me get up. “But Mom, let us try to mend it. So let’s make it better.
The riders worked for three days straight. My son didn’t go to work. His club brothers gathered in groups. They brought food with them. Made sure I had food. Their stories made me laugh.
I found out that my son is a mechanical engineer. Married. Two children. My grandkids. Five and seven years old. A girl and a boy.
On the second day, my son stated, “They want to meet you.” “If you want to see them.”
I started to cry again. I had been crying for three days in a row. “I’d do anything to meet them.”
He rang his wife. She came back an hour later with two young ones. They hurried into my house, saying, “Grandpa! Grandpa!” like they had known me their whole lives.
They had seen images that my kid had sent them. Gave them stories. Got them ready for this moment. Jessica, his wife, gave me a big hug. “I’m sorry we took so long,” she said softly. “I should have pushed him to make up sooner.”
That night, we ate dinner. Everyone. The motorcycle riders. The family of my son. Me. We had pizza on my newly painted porch and watched the sun set.
There was a biker next to me named Tommy. “Your wife was one of a kind. The way she set all this up. Made sure you wouldn’t be alone yourself. He stopped. My wife died eight years ago. I understand how you feel. That void. But you have relatives now. There are individuals who won’t let you fall.
They were done on the fourth day. My house looked better than it had in the last twenty years. New cabinets. New paint. The roof has been fixed to ensure its stability. Bathroom that has been redone. Fixed the porch.
The president of my son’s club gave me an envelope. “This is from all of us.” Money for groceries. Bills over the next three months. Before she died, your wife set up a fund. Made us vow to take care of you.
Sarah had made all the plans. Every little thing. She knew I couldn’t do anything without her. I knew I would need someone to make me keep living.
The bikers put away their tools. Started the engines of their motorcycles. But before they departed, they all came up to me one at a time. Gave me a shake. Gave me a hug. They said I was now a member of their extended family.
Tommy said, “Your son is our brother.” “That means you’re part of our family too. Call if you need anything. “We’ll be here.”
My son stayed after they left. We sat on the porch and drank our coffee. Like we used to do when he was little and we’d watch the sun come up together.
“I joined the club because I wanted what you had when you rode,” he remarked in a low voice. “That freedom. That brotherhood. I wanted to know why you liked it so much. He stared at me. “Because of you, Dad, I joined.” Not because of you.
For all those years. So much fury and stillness. He just wanted to be like me.
I said, “Your mom was smarter than both of us.” “She knew we were too stubborn to do it ourselves.” So she took care of it for us.
My son grinned. “She said that if we didn’t make up, she would come back and haunt us both.” I trust her.
I laughed. First time I’ve really laughed since Sarah died. “Oh, she would for sure.”
We stayed there till the sun came up. Making plans. Discussing what will happen in the future. About the grandkids coming around every weekend. About how he taught me to ride again after all these years.
” My son said, “I have an extra bike.” “Nothing fancy.” But it works. We could go on a ride at some point. “Just the two of us.”
I nodded. Couldn’t talk. Nodded.
That happened six months ago. Every Saturday, my grandkids come over. Every day my son calls. His club brothers come by often to see how I’m doing. I’m not the only one. Sarah made sure I wouldn’t be alone.
I rode with my son last week. It was my first time on a bike in 15 years. We rode out to Sarah’s burial site. We parked our bikes and sat there for a while.
My son said, “Thanks, Mom,” to her grave. “Thank you for not giving up on us.”
I touched the stone with my hand. Granite that is cold. But I could sense her. Feel her love. Feel her willpower. Feel how she won’t let us end our relationship.
I said, “Thank you, baby.” “Thanks for breaking into my house.” Thanks for making us fix what we broke.
People think we’re criminals when they talk about motorcyclists. Not safe. People to stay away from. But fifteen bikers burst into my residence and brought my family back. They didn’t get paid. Brought things they needed. Used their own money. My wife begged my son for help, and he asked his brothers for help.
That’s what true bikers do. They come. They are helpful. They don’t want to be recognized or paid. They just get things done.
Next month, my son’s group is going to have a ride in memory of Sarah. Three hundred motorcyclists have come to pay their respects to a woman they never met. Because she cared about her family enough to make sure they would be okay without her.
I’m going to ride with them. On the bike that my son gave me. He gave me a vest to wear. A member with no obligations. A member of the brotherhood.
Sarah would have liked that. Would have loved to see us together. I would have been delighted to know that her idea worked.
While I was at my wife’s funeral, bikers broke into my house. And they kept me alive.
