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.

then said something that caught me completely off guard.

“You must be her kid.”

Not *your mother*. Not her name. Just *her*.

And somehow, that made it more personal.

“Yes,” I said cautiously. “Who are you?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gestured toward the house, now half-covered in fresh pink paint.

“She always wanted it this color,” he said.continue reading …