A week ago, I sat in my kitchen waiting for my son to bring groceries like he promised. He never came. When I called, his wife answered coldly, “We can’t keep doing this. You need to figure something out.” Then she hung up.
By morning, my fridge held only mustard and two eggs. I bundled up, grabbed my cart, and walked toward the discount store. That’s when I ran into them—the bikers. Leather vests, tattoos, the works. I almost turned back, but when one dropped a bag of cans, I helped him pick them up.
He grinned, like I’d done him a favor. Then they asked if I had someone helping me. My voice cracked when I said no. They didn’t pity me. They just started filling a crate with food—more than I could have afforded in months.
“We take care of our own,” one said.
I didn’t know what that meant then. But now, standing with men who treat me kinder than my own blood, I finally understand. Family isn’t always who you’re born with. Sometimes, it finds you.
