My name is Linda Harrison. Two years ago, after my husband Frank’s heart surgery, I lied to him. I told him Dr. Morrison said he could never ride his motorcycle again. The truth? The doctor cleared him after six months, saying it would help his mental health. I burned the real discharge papers and replaced them with fake ones while Frank was unconscious.

Frank has been a biker for 53 years. After the surgery, I was embarrassed to be married to a “biker” at 68. I thought stopping him would keep him safe—and maybe make our life more respectable. But watching him stare at his covered Harley every day, broken and depressed, destroyed me.

For months, Frank followed my lie, believing it was his only way to live. He lost hope, stopped planning rides, and pushed friends away. His spirit was dying, even as his heart healed perfectly. Our daughter noticed, and I lied again.

At his follow-ups, other doctors expressed surprise at the restrictions. But I kept lying.

Two years later, Frank had another heart attack—and died. His friends told me Dr. Morrison had told them Frank should have ridden again to aid recovery. The truth I burned had stolen his soul long before his body gave up.

Now, in our empty house, I see his Harley—fifty years of memories and freedom. I took that away. I murdered my husband’s spirit.