Bikers Were Painting My Dead Mother’s House Pink At 4AM And I Didn’t Know Any Of Them

Bikers were painting my dead mother’s house pink at 4 AM and I didnn’t know any of them. I counted nine of them. I didn’t know a single one.

My mom died on a Tuesday. Pancreatic cancer. She was 67. I flew in from Seattle for the funeral and stayed to deal with the house.

I hadn’t been home in three years. My mom and I weren’t close. We had our reasons. I thought I’d sign some papers, clean out her things, and list it by Friday.

The house was worse than I expected. Paint peeling off in sheets. Gutters hanging loose. The porch railing was rotted through. She’d been sick for over a year and there was nobody to help her keep it up.

Or so I thought.

The first night, I fell asleep on her couch surrounded by boxes. I woke up at 4 AM to the sound of something scraping against the outside wall.

I looked through the window and my heart nearly stopped.

There were motorcycles lining the street. At least nine of them. And there were men on ladders. On the porch. Along the side of the house. In the dark. With work lights clamped to sawhorses.