No one expected fifty roaring motorcycles at my son’s funeral—least of all the four classmates who pushed him to the edge.
I’ve never been the crying type. After twenty-six years cleaning up high school hallways, I’d mastered the art of swallowing emotions. But when the first Harley rolled into the cemetery, then another, and another—until the earth itself seemed to rumble with their thunder—that’s when the dam inside me finally broke.
Mikey was just fourteen when he ended his life in our garage. His final note was heartbreak in ink. “I can’t take it anymore, Dad. They tell me to kill myself every single day. Now they’ve got what they wanted.” Four names. Four kids. And a silence that had cost too much.
The police called it “tragic but not criminal.” The school principal offered “thoughts and prayers,” then suggested scheduling the funeral during school hours to “prevent any issues.”
I’d never felt so powerless. Couldn’t protect my boy while he was alive. Couldn’t get justice after he was gone.
Then Sam showed up at our door. Six-foot-three, leather vest, gray beard down to his chest. I recognized him—he pumped gas at the station where Mikey and I would stop for slushies after his therapy appointments.
