Grief is hard enough without cruelty twisting the knife. As I said my final goodbye to Barbara, my wife of 45 years, someone in our “perfect” neighborhood saw an opportunity—to attack the one thing I had left: my Harley.
I’d ridden that bike to the funeral because Barbara would’ve expected nothing less. We’d traveled thousands of miles together on it. But when I returned to the parking lot, it was tipped over, damaged, and labeled “biker trash.”
This wasn’t the first incident. Since moving to Cedar Hills for Barbara’s health, the complaints had been relentless—too loud, too “unrefined.” The HOA president, Howard, made sure I knew we didn’t fit in. Even as Barbara fought cancer, he’d show up with his clipboard, lecturing about “community standards.”
At the funeral reception, Howard couldn’t resist gloating. “Perhaps it’s time for something more… suitable,” he said, nodding at my vest. I leaned in. “You should know something about me—I always find out who crosses me.”
The bike’s just metal. But the hatred behind this? That cuts deeper.
