I sold the bike just two weeks after Mia’s funeral. The matte black Harley with flames reminded me of her—her laugh, her pink helmet, our freedom. But after the drunk driver took her away, I parked it and never rode again. With kids now, fear kept me from risking anything.
The kids felt it too. My son traced the tank; my daughter fell silent when the garage felt empty. They knew it wasn’t just a bike.
Then one day, they shouted, “Dad! Someone’s riding your Harley—the one with the flames!” I saw it cruising down the street—my bike, but with a stranger.
The next morning, the rider showed up. Rick. He’d heard about us from my kids. He handed me a flyer for a local rider group—people healing through riding together. He said if I wanted the bike back, I had to ride with them first.
That Sunday, I joined the group. We rode quietly through winding roads. At a diner, a woman asked about Mia, and for the first time in a long while, I spoke her name. I felt something shift.
After the ride, Rick handed me the keys. The bike was mine again.
When I pulled home, the kids were waiting, helmets in hand. We took a short ride around the block—their laughter, the wind, and the open road brought something back to life inside me.
Mia was gone, but there was now room for healing, hope, and moving forward.
Maybe selling the bike wasn’t the mistake—riding alone was.
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