47 BIKERS SHOWED UP TO WALK MY 5-YEAR-OLD SON INTO KINDERGARTEN AFTER HIS FATHER WAS K.i.L.L.E.D RIDING HIS MOTORCYCLE TO WORK
It’s a letter,” Bear says, his voice catching as he reaches into the helmet and pulls out a folded, yellowed envelope with Tommy’s name written in Jim’s neat block letters.
My knees nearly give out. I press a hand to my mouth as tears spring to my eyes. “He wrote a letter? When?”
I take the envelope with shaking fingers, staring at the name written in pencil—Tommy. My son is still at the window, his breath fogging the glass. I glance up at Bear, who just gives a small nod, stepping aside.
“Tommy,” I call softly. “Come here, sweetheart.”
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