“Because you remind us why we do this,” he finally said. “You judged us by our appearance. Most people do. But you were willing to see past it. You were willing to learn. You were willing to change.” He paused. “That’s rare, Maggie. That’s worth protecting.”
I think about that first night often. How close I came to never knowing these men. How my fear and prejudice almost cost me one of the greatest gifts of my life.
I was wrong.
The bikers I made pay before they ate have given me more than I could ever repay. Friendship. Family. A reason to keep going after Robert died.
The five hundred dollars they left that first night is still in my register. I’ve never spent it. Never will. It’s a reminder.
A reminder that the scariest-looking people often have the gentlest hearts.
A reminder that judgment says more about the judge than the judged.
A reminder that it’s never too late to admit you were wrong.
Every time a new customer looks nervous when bikers walk in, I tell them the story. I show them the photo behind the counter. I introduce them to Thomas if he’s there.
“These men are heroes,” I tell them. “These men are family. These men are welcome in my diner anytime.”
They made me family because they understood why.
That’s the difference between who I was and who they are.
And every single day, I try to be a little more like them.
