Bikers broke into my house while I was at my wife’s funeral. I came home to find fifteen motorcycles parked in my driveway and my back door kicked in. My neighbors had called the police twice. I could hear power tools running inside my house. I was still wearing my funeral suit. Still had the folded flag from Sarah’s casket in my hands. I’d just buried my wife of thirty-two years and now someone was destroying my home.
I pushed through the splintered door, ready to shout, ready to shove anyone who got in my way. Grief had hollowed me out and left space for anger to move in fast. The kitchen lights were on, boards stacked against the counter, and a dozen rough hands were at work. Then one of the men looked up and met my eyes — an older rider with a gray beard and gentle face I vaguely recognized from the hospice parking lot where Sarah used to volunteer tea and cookies. He dropped his drill, wiped his hands, and came over slowly.
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