The bikers showed up at my dad’s house after he lost his legs and he cried for three hours straight. I’d never seen my father cry before.
Not when my mother died. Not when the doctors told him he had diabetes. Not even when they amputated his right leg below the knee two years ago.
But when four massive men in leather vests walked through his front door unannounced, my father—my tough, stoic, Vietnam veteran father—broke down sobbing.
I was in the kitchen making him lunch when I heard the motorcycles. Four of them. The sound rattled the windows. My father’s neighborhood was quiet. Retired people. Neat lawns. Nobody rode motorcycles here.
