My throat thickens. I clear it, but it doesn’t help.
“You gave me Tiffany and Anthony. You gave me years I didn’t earn. You taught me how to care about something other than myself. I hope, I hope you knew I loved you. Even if I didn’t know how to show it right.”
A long breath leaves me.
I glance down at my hands—scarred, rough, stained from years of grease and blood and all the things I swore I’d survive. But for the first time in a long time, they don’t feel empty.
“I need to tell you something,” I say, lifting my eyes back to her name. “Something important.”
The breeze stills.
“I met someone.”
Saying it out loud sends a ripple through my chest—fear, guilt, relief all tangled together.
“Her name’s Holley.” I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “You’d like her. She’s stubborn as hell. Sweet, but not fragile. Quiet until she’s not. Stronger than she knows. She’s been through things—real things—and she still meets the world with open hands.”
My chest tightens.
“She’s not you.” I make sure the words are clear. Respectful. True.
“And she’s not replacing you. That’s not what this is.”
I touch the edge of the headstone with two fingers, like I’m grounding myself.
“I thought I’d spend the rest of my life hollow. Just raising our kids, watching our grandkids grow up, repairing engines, riding with the club, and waiting to wear myself down to nothing. I didn’t think I had… anything left. Not love. Not hope. Definitely not softness.”
I swallow.
“But Holley she woke something up in me. Something I thought dried up the day you left this world.”
A breath shudders out of me.
“I feel things again. Real things. Big things. And I think… I think you’d want that for me. I think you’d be yelling at me if you saw how long I spent convincing myself I didn’t deserve another chance.”
I manage a small smile.
“You always said I was stubborn.”
The wind stirs again, gentle this time.
“I need you to know,” I say softly, “I won’t stop loving you. That doesn’t go away. It just… shifts. Grows into a space where grief doesn’t choke it anymore.”
I stand slowly, knees creaking, and place my hand flat on the top of the stone.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For the years you gave me. For the girl you left in my care. For loving a man who didn’t know how to love you the way you deserved.”
A long silence settles.
“I’m learning now,” I add. “Because of Holley. Because you taught me how.”
I take a step back, nod once—a final, quiet promise—and turn toward my bike waiting at the edge of the lot.
As I walk, the tightness in my chest eases. Not gone. Not erased.
Just… lighter.
Holley is sitting on the porch when I pull back into the compound, sunlight catching the tips of her hair. She’s wearing those soft leggings that make my brain short-circuit and one of my shirts tied at the waist.
