I’m eighty-two years old and I was standing on the corner of Madison and Fifth with everything I owned in two garbage bags. My daughter’s words were still ringing in my ears: “Mom, we can’t afford to keep you anymore. You need to figure something else out.”
Forty-seven years I raised that girl. Changed her diapers. Paid for her college. Helped her buy her first house. And she put me out like trash because I was too expensive to keep.
I stood there trying to figure out what to do. The homeless shelter was six miles away. I couldn’t walk that far. I had $43 in my purse and nowhere to sleep. My son wouldn’t answer my calls. My daughter blocked my number after she dropped me off.
That’s when the motorcycles pulled up. Three of them. Big loud machines that made my chest vibrate. Three massive men climbed off wearing leather vests covered in patches and tattoos running up their arms.
I was terrified. You hear stories about bikers. About gangs and violence and danger. I clutched my purse and tried to step back but my hip locked up. I nearly fell.
The biggest one caught me. “Whoa, ma’am. Easy. You okay?” His hands were gentle. His voice was soft. Not what I expected from a man who looked like he could break me in half.
“I’m fine,” I lied. My voice was shaking. “Just waiting for someone.” All three of them looked at my garbage bags. At my soaked coat. At the way I was shivering. They knew I was lying.
“Ma’am, how long have you been standing here?” the second one asked. He had a gray beard down to his chest and kind eyes.
“Not long,” I said. Another lie. I’d been there for three hours. Since my daughter dropped me off at noon and told me to figure it out.
The third biker, younger than the others but still intimidating, pulled out his phone. “Ma’am, it’s forty-two degrees and raining. You’re soaking wet. Please let us help you. Let us at least get you somewhere warm.”Continue reading…
