The Mother looked at her son.
The biker explained.
“He wanted a sidecar.”
The Little Boy became still.
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Birthday.”
The Mother's eyes widened.
“His sixth?”
The biker nodded.
The Little Boy had been three when his father died.
The plan had been years away.
The biker explained.
“He was going to rebuild the bike slowly.”
The Mother sat down beside her son.
“He never told me.”
“Supposed to be a surprise.”
The biker looked almost guilty.
“I told him keeping something secret from his wife for three years was a bad strategy.”
The Mother laughed softly.
“That was good advice.”
“He ignored it.”
“That also sounds like him.”
The Little Boy touched the jacket collar.
“So Dad wanted to ride with me?”
“Very much.”
The Boy smiled.
Then tears began slipping down his cheeks.
He wiped them angrily.
The biker looked away to give him privacy.
The Mother wrapped both arms around her son.
For almost a minute, nobody spoke.
Traffic continued overhead.
Cars still crossed.
Cold still existed.
But their world had narrowed to an old leather jacket and a plan made by a dead father nobody knew survived.
Eventually the Mother looked at the biker.
“Why didn’t you come to the funeral?”
His face changed immediately.
She knew he had been there somehow.
“You knew he died.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Mutual friend.”
“And?”
“I drove there.”
The Mother stared.
“You were at the church?”
“Parking lot.”
“Why didn’t you come inside?”
The biker looked toward his motorcycle.
“I didn’t know if you knew who I was.”
“I didn’t.”
“That was the problem.”
Her voice sharpened.
“So instead of introducing yourself, you kept my husband’s things for three years?”
The biker absorbed that without defending himself.
“Yes.”
The Mother waited for an excuse.
None came.
“You know that was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The biker exhaled.
“Cowardice.”
That surprised her.
A man his size admitting fear without dressing it up.
“I kept thinking I’d call next week.”
The Mother knew that kind of sentence.
“Then?”
“Month passed.”
He shrugged.
“Then more.”
“And eventually it became easier to do nothing.”
“Yes.”
The Mother looked at the jacket.
“That could have disappeared.”
“I know.”
“You could have died.”
“I know.”
“My son might never have known.”
“I know.”
Anger returned.
The biker nodded.
“You should be angry.”
The Mother stared at him.
“I am.”
“Good.”
She almost laughed.
“You don’t get to approve my anger.”
“Fair.”
The Little Boy interrupted.
“Can I keep the jacket?”
Both adults looked at him.
The biker answered immediately.
“Yes.”
The Mother said, “It belongs to him.”