I’d been sitting on that cold bench for three hours, still holding the grocery list he’d written for me. “Get your own stuff, Mom. I’ll be in the car,” he’d said.
But when I came out with two small bags—all my Social Security check could afford—his car was gone. The text came ten minutes later:
“Margaret found a nursing home with an opening. They’ll pick you up tomorrow.
It’s time.”
That’s how my son told me he was dumping me. Through a text. After I’d raised him alone.
Worked three jobs to put him through college. Sold my house to pay for his wedding. I was still staring at my phone when the motorcycles pulled up.
Seven of them. Engines so loud I felt them in my chest. The Savage Angels MC, their vests said.
I tried to look invisible—an 82-year-old woman doesn’t want trouble with bikers. But the biggest one, a mountain of a man with a grey beard down to his chest, walked straight toward me. I clutched my purse tighter.
“Ma’am? You okay? You’ve been sitting here since we went in the store.”
His voice was gentle, nothing like I expected.
“I’m… I’m waiting for my ride.”
“In this cold? How long you been waiting?”
I couldn’t answer. The tears just came.
One of the bikers asked where I live. And when I told them, they exchanged looks I couldn’t quite read. One of them whispered something under his breath, then turned back to me and said:
“Ma’am, we’ve got some business with your son.”
I blinked at him, confused.
“You know Colin?”
The grey-bearded one gave a slow nod. “We know of him. Sounds like he forgot where he came from.”
They offered me a ride, and I didn’t know what else to do.
My knees were stiff, the sun had already dipped below the trees, and the wind was cutting straight through my coat. So I got on the back of one of the bikes—awkwardly, clinging to the man they called “Ox”—and they drove me to my son’s house. When we pulled into the driveway, I half-expected Colin to come storming out.
But the house was dark. Margaret’s car was gone too. Ox walked me to the door and waited while I rang the bell.
No answer. He looked over his shoulder and said, “Fellas, this one’s empty.”
Another biker, a tall woman with short black hair and eyes like stone, turned her head and said, “You sure you want to leave her here?”
I didn’t know her name yet, but her voice was firm. Protective.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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