My son, Thomas, suggested a road trip to get me out of the house. I agreed, despite hating long car rides. At a gas station off the interstate, he vanished while I bought mints. Stranded in the rain, I realized he wasn’t coming back.
A biker named Bo, all tattoos and leather, pulled up and offered his jacket as shelter. I told him everything—how Thomas left me, likely influenced by his new wife, Candice. Bo didn’t judge. He offered a ride, and with no options, I climbed onto his Harley.
We rode to a small town, stopping at a retro diner. Over coffee and pie, I shared more about Thomas and Candice’s disdain. Bo listened, saying family should have your back. He arranged a night at his cousin’s B&B, insisting I rest.
The next day, Bo suggested I join his sister, Irene, at her antique shop. I stayed, working and living above the shop, rediscovering my voice. Thomas eventually called, claiming Candice misled him. We’re rebuilding, but I’m not ready to return.
Three years later, I’m still with Irene, and Bo visits often, bringing trinkets and stories. He’s my chosen family now, proof that when one door closes, another opens—sometimes on a motorcycle.
