At 74, I stood before my biker brothers and broke down. “I can’t afford to bury my wife.” Margaret, my wife of 46 years, had died suddenly. That’s when I found the unpaid bills—she’d been hiding our financial struggles to protect me.
The Iron Disciples wanted to help, but we were all broke. Still, Buck, our president, said, “We’ll figure it out.”
Three days later, on our anniversary, he knocked on my door. Outside stood dozens of bikers from all over. They led a procession up to Overlook Ridge, Margaret’s favorite spot. At the top: a wooden casket, hand-built. Flowers from neighbors. A donated burial plot beside our son.
“How did this happen?” I asked.
Buck replied, “Community. Margaret built it.”
She’d spent her life giving. And in the end, that love came back to carry her home.
