“I’m keeping the bike,” I told her firmly. “Your mom never once asked me to give it up.”

She started to respond—“But now that Mom—” and then fell silent. She didn’t need to finish. I knew what she was trying to say: Mom’s gone.

“The bike stays,” I repeated, this time leaving no room for discussion.

On the morning of the funeral, I rode my motorcycle to church early. I wanted to speak to the pastor before the service. Some people frowned when they heard the engine. I didn’t care. Barbara would’ve wanted me to show up on two wheels—like always.

The service was beautiful. Howard and his wife came, along with many neighbors. People said kind things about Barbara and offered sympathy. Howard even nodded at me when he saw the suit. It was like I’d finally passed his test.

Then I stepped outside—and saw the damage.

“My God,” Caroline said, hurrying over. “Dad, I’m really sorry.”

I didn’t answer. I just stared. My bike was wrecked. Spray paint covered the gas tank. It was the one Barbara and I picked together. She helped me care for it. Now it was ruined. People around us whispered. But not many looked shocked.

Officer Reynolds showed up and took notes.

“Never understood why people target bikes,” he said. “It’s a coward’s move.”

“This wasn’t random,” I told him. “It was personal.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You think someone did this today? At a funeral?”

I looked toward Howard. He stood with some Cedar Hills folks. His face said enough.

“I do,” I said.

The bike still worked. Caroline wanted to load it in her car and drive me home. I refused.

“I’ve ridden through worse,” I told her.

The truth? I needed that ride. The wind, the engine, the road—it helped me feel something again. Barbara was gone. I needed to feel alive.

Back home, people gathered for the reception. I changed out of the suit into jeans and a shirt. But I kept my leather vest on. The one with my Vietnam Veteran patch. And the Iron Horses MC logo.

Howard walked up while I stood by the food table. I hadn’t touched the sandwich on my plate.

“Shame about your motorcycle,” he said. His voice was flat. “Maybe it’s time to consider something more… suitable for Cedar Hills.”

I looked him in the eye. “Seems to me someone didn’t have the guts to talk to me. So they trashed my bike while I was burying my wife.”

He flushed. “I didn’t do that.”

“I never said you did,” I replied. “But whoever did needs to know something.”

He narrowed his eyes. “And what’s that?”

“I’ve buried my wife. My parents. Sixteen brothers I rode with. There’s nothing left to take from me.” I leaned in slightly. “And I always find out who’s behind the damage.”