At precisely seven that morning, leather-clad bikers surrounded our home—Jim’s brothers, angels of chrome and thunder. My son Tommy, terrified since his father’s death, peeked through the window. Their leader, Bear, handed me Jim’s restored helmet. Inside, we found a letter from his father: “You’re never alone, son. Ride hard. Love, Dad.”
Tears flowed as Tommy read it. The bikers promised to escort him to school—and they did. Forty-seven engines roared that morning, carrying hope where grief had lived. Soon, “Tommy’s Crew” grew—veterans, widows, children—riding to heal. Our broken town found strength in unity, proving love always finds its way back.
