My son, Thomas, called it a “road trip.” He said it would do me good to leave the house, to see the world again. I went along, though I’ve never been fond of long drives. Somewhere on a quiet interstate, we stopped at a gas station. I stepped inside for mints, only to return and find his car gone. Minutes passed before I realized the truth: Thomas wasn’t coming back.
Rain poured down, drenching me. That’s when a motorcycle pulled up, its rider rugged, tattooed, yet unexpectedly kind. He shielded me with his jacket and asked gently, “You alright, ma’am?” I told him everything. He didn’t flinch—just nodded and said, “Climb on. I know where we need to go.”
I hesitated but chose to trust him. We rode through the rain to a diner, where pie and coffee loosened my grief. His name was Bo. He listened without judgment, reminding me that family should never abandon you.
That night, I realized something: while the son I raised had left me, life had sent someone else to guide me toward a new beginning.
