In the early hours of a quiet morning, exactly at seven o’clock, a group of 47 motorcyclists arrived at our small home. Their leather vests gleamed in the soft light of dawn, and their presence was both powerful and comforting. Many had gray beards and tattoos, marking them as men who had lived through many battles, both on and off the road.

They surrounded our house like silent guardians, their engines rumbling softly, announcing their arrival with respect and purpose. For three weeks before that morning, my son Tommy had refused to attend school. Since his father’s tragic death in a motorcycle accident while riding to work, Tommy had been gripped by fear. He was afraid that if he left the house, I would disappear just like his dad.

Each morning, he clung to me, his small hands holding tight to my knees, begging me to let him stay home forever. He cried, promising he would be good, if only we could remain…