“You’re not imposing. You’re accepting help from David’s mother. He’d want this.”
Thomas stayed for three days. I cleaned his wounds, fed him, and listened to his stories. He told me about his motorcycle club—the Guardians—all veterans who’d lost people. How they visited Gold Star families. How they protected abuse victims. How they tried to make meaning from their pain.
“Mrs. Chen, David saved my life as much as I tried to save his. After my son died, I had nothing. No reason to keep going. But David made me promise to take care of you if anything happened to him. That promise kept me alive. Gave me purpose. Even when I couldn’t face you, knowing you were okay because of my help—that saved me.”
“We saved each other,” I said. “Without knowing it.”
“David knew. Somehow, that kid knew we’d need each other.”
Thomas left the next morning, but we stayed in touch. He introduced me to his motorcycle club. Tough, scary-looking men who all carried invisible wounds. They adopted me as a club mother. Started showing up for house repairs, yard work, or just to check in.
I started cooking for them. Every Sunday, my house fills with bikers. We eat, we laugh, we cry, we remember. David would have loved it.
Last month was the thirteenth anniversary of David’s death. Thomas and forty other Guardians rode to his grave. They placed flags, told stories, and rendered full military honors.
Thomas stood at David’s headstone and finally said the words he’d carried for thirteen years: “Mission complete, soldier. Your mother is safe. She knows everything. She understands. You can stand down now.”
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