Nobody expected fifty bikers at my son Mikey’s funeral. Especially not the four boys who drove him to suicide. Mikey was 14, gentle, artistic, and tormented at school. When I found him in the garage, gone, the note he left named his bullies: “They tell me to kill myself every day. Now they’ll be happy.” The school called it unfortunate. The police said it wasn’t criminal. The principal offered thoughts and prayers and asked us to schedule the funeral during school hours—so the boys could attend “without incident.”
I’d never felt more powerless. Three days before the service, Sam—a biker who’d known Mikey from the gas station—knocked on my door. His nephew had died the same way. He gave me a number: “Call us if you want… presence. No trouble.” I didn’t call until I found Mikey’s journal. Page after page of torment. Screenshots of texts: “Just end it already.” “You’re a waste of air.” I called. The next morning, fifty bikers from the Steel Angels lined the cemetery. Leather vests, solemn eyes, and silence.
