I Panicked When I Found A Biker Sleeping On My Porch Until I Saw The Note In His Hand

“The Army said he died in an IED explosion. That you all did.”

Thomas shook his head slowly. “Three of us survived. Barely. I was in a coma for four months. Had to learn to walk again. By the time I was functional, a year had passed. I came to find you but you’d moved. Left no forwarding address.”

That was true. After David’s death, I’d sold everything and moved across the country. Couldn’t bear the memories in our old house.

“I hired a private investigator five years ago,” Thomas continued. “Found out you’d remarried, changed your name to Chen. Found your address. Came to your door three times. Could never knock. Kept thinking about what I’d say. How I’d explain.”

“Explain what?”

Thomas closed his eyes. “That David didn’t die instantly. That he lived for two hours. That I held him while he bled out because the medevac couldn’t get to us. That he talked about you the whole time.”

I felt the world tilt. Everything the Army told me was a lie.

“He wasn’t in pain,” Thomas said quickly. “I made sure of that. Used all our morphine. He was… peaceful. Talked about you like you were sitting right there with us. Told me stories about teaching him to ride a bike. About making him peanut butter and banana sandwiches. About reading him The Hobbit when he was sick.”

I was sobbing now. Ugly, raw sobs I hadn’t let out in twelve years.

“He made me promise to tell you he wasn’t scared. That he was thinking about you. That he was grateful for everything.” Thomas held out the letter. “And he made me promise to give you this. Said it was important. Said you’d understand.”

I took the letter with shaking hands. Opened it carefully. David’s handwriting, messy from writing in a combat zone:

“Mom, if you’re reading this, then Morrison kept his promise. That means you can trust him. I’m leaving something with him. Something important. He doesn’t know what it is. I hid it in his gear. When you get this letter, ask him about the wooden box in his storage unit. The one he’s never opened. Tell him David says it’s time. I love you forever. Your son, David.

P.S. – Mom, Morrison is going to blame himself for my death. Don’t let him. He’s the best man I’ve ever known. He saved my life a dozen times before this. This time was just my time.”

I looked at Thomas. “What wooden box?”

His eyes widened. “I have a box. Found it in my gear when I got home from the hospital. Figured someone had put it there by mistake. It’s been in my storage unit ever since. Sealed. Never opened it.”

“We need to go get it.”

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