“I’m not leaving,” I said. “I’m buying this woman her groceries. All of them. And then I’m taking her home. And if you call the police, that’s fine. I’ll tell them exactly what happened here. I’ll tell the news too. I’m sure they’d love this story.”
The manager swallowed hard. “That won’t be necessary. The bread is on the house. Ma’am, I’m so sorry for how you were treated.”
“Let me help you,” I said. “Do you have other shopping to do?”
She looked up at me. This tiny woman who’d survived Hitler looking up at this huge biker in leather and patches. “Why are you helping me? You don’t know me.”
“Because it’s right,” I said. “And because my mother would haunt me from her grave if I walked past a woman being treated like that.”
For the first time, she smiled. Just a little. “Your mother raised you well.”
“She tried, ma’am. She tried.”
I spent the next hour with her in that grocery store. Found out her name was Eva. She was eighty-three years old. Her husband had died six months ago. Her only son had passed from cancer ten years before that. She was completely alone.Continue reading…
