A Final Gift of Love
After my wife’s funeral, I came home expecting silence — not the roar of motorcycles in my driveway.
Still in my black suit, I opened the door and froze.
My house was full of bikers — not stealing, but repairing.
Some painted the living room, others fixed the roof and porch.
At the table sat my son, whom I hadn’t spoken to in ten years.
He explained that my late wife had written him months before her passing, asking him to take care of me and leaving a list of repairs.
His motorcycle club had come to help fulfill her final wish.
For three days, they worked nonstop — fixing the house, feeding me, and healing old wounds.
I met my daughter-in-law and grandchildren for the first time.
When they finished, my son said, “Mom wanted you to know you’re not alone.”
That day, love rebuilt my home — and my heart.
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