Some bikers were painting my mother’s house pink after she died at 4 a.m., and I didn’t know any of them.Some bikers were painting my mother’s house pink after she died at 4 a.m., and I didn’t know any of them.

quiet purpose. They weren’t loud or rowdy like the stereotypes you see in movies. They were focused.

And they were painting the house.

Pink.

Bright, unmistakable pink.

I stood there for a moment, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. My first reaction wasn’t curiosity—it was confusion mixed with a flicker of anger.

Who were these people? Why were they continue reading …