Bikers broke into my house while I was at my wife’s funeral. I came home to find fifteen motorcycles parked in my driveway and my back door kicked in.

My neighbors had called the police twice. I could hear power tools running inside my house.

I was still wearing my funeral suit. Still had the folded flag from Sarah’s casket in my hands. I’d just buried my wife of thirty-two years and now someone was destroying my home.

I walked through my kicked-in back door ready to fight whoever I found. I didn’t care anymore. Sarah was gone. What else could they take from me?

What I found in my kitchen made me stop breathing.

Seven bikers were installing new cabinets. Three more were painting my living room. Two were fixing my broken porch that had been rotting for five years. One was on my roof patching holes I couldn’t afford to repair.

And sitting at my kitchen table, crying while looking at a photo, was my son.

My son who I hadn’t spoken to in eleven years.

“Dad,” he said when he saw me. His voice cracked. “Dad, I’m so sorry.”

I didn’t understand. None of this made sense. “What are you doing? Why are you here? How did you even know?”

He stood up. He was wearing a leather vest. Patches I didn’t recognize. A club I’d never heard of. “Mom called me three months ago. Before she got bad. She made me promise something.”

My wife had stage four cancer. Six months from diagnosis to death. She’d hidden how sick she was until she couldn’t hide it anymore. Refused to let me call our son. “He made his choice,” she’d always said. “He chose to leave.”

But apparently Sarah had made a different choice when she knew she was dying.

My son’s hands were shaking. “She called me and said, ‘Your father is going to fall apart when I’m gone. He won’t eat. Won’t sleep. Won’t take care of himself or the house. He’ll give up.’”

He wiped his eyes. “She said, ‘I need you to make sure he doesn’t give up. I don’t care if you two haven’t spoken. I don’t care about your pride or his. He’s going to need help and you’re going to give it to him.’”

I couldn’t speak. Sarah had done this. Had planned this. Had reached out to the son who’d cut us out of his life.

“I told her I would,” my son continued. “But I didn’t think I could face you alone. So I asked my club. Told them about you. About Mom. About everything.”

He gestured to the bikers working throughout my house. “These are my brothers. And they volunteered to help.”

One of the bikers, a huge guy with a gray beard, walked over. “Mr. Patterson, your wife was very specific about what you needed. She sent your son a list. New kitchen cabinets because yours are falling apart.

Paint for the living room because it reminds you of better days. Roof repairs. Porch fix. Bathroom remodel.”

He handed me a piece of paper. My wife’s handwriting. A detailed list of everything wrong with our house. Everything I’d been too broke or too tired or too depressed to fix.