I poured him coffee with shaking hands. “Better. Getting better.”
He nodded. “Grief takes time. There’s no rushing it. But you don’t have to carry it alone.”
When they left, Thomas pressed something into my hand. A patch. Iron Guardians MC. “Friend of the Club.”
“You earned this,” he said. “Not because you trusted us from the start. But because you had the courage to change your mind.”
That was three years ago.
Today, the Iron Guardians stop at Maggie’s Diner every time they pass through town. Sometimes five of them. Sometimes twenty. They always pay—won’t let me give them free food no matter how hard I try—and they always leave the table spotless.
They’ve become my family.
When my roof needed repairs last year, twelve of them showed up with tools and materials. Wouldn’t take a penny. “Family takes care of family,” Thomas said.
When I had surgery on my hip, they organized a meal train. Different members dropping off food every night for six weeks. Homemade stuff. Good stuff. Their wives’ recipes passed down for generations.
When my grandson got bullied at school for being small, Thomas and three others showed up at his baseball game. Sat in the front row wearing their vests. Cheered louder than anyone.
I asked Thomas once why they kept coming back. Why they cared so much about an old woman who’d treated them so badly that first night.
He thought about it for a long moment.
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