Two weeks after Mia’s funeral, I sold the Harley. I couldn’t bear seeing it in the garage—every curve reminding me of her laughter, her arms around me, her ridiculous pink helmet. After a drunk driver took her, riding without her felt wrong. I had two kids who needed me. I let it go, telling myself it was just a machine. But it wasn’t. My son whispered to it before it was sold.
My daughter stopped drawing for days. They knew it wasn’t just a bike—it was a piece of who we were before everything changed.Then one day, they came running: “Dad! Someone’s riding your bike!” I saw it—my Harley, flames gleaming on the tank, in perfect condition. The next morning, the rider, Rick, showed up. He’d met my kids.
