By the third month, I could not take it anymore.
That Saturday, I stepped out of my car and walked toward him.
He heard my footsteps but did not turn around.
His hand stayed pressed against Emily’s name.
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “I’m Emily’s husband. I think it’s time you told me who you are.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he slowly stood, turned toward me, and looked like a man who had been waiting six months for this question.
Finally, he said:
Your wife was my…”……
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I never meant to make you uncomfortable. I only came here because I needed to say thank you.”
I stared at him, confused.
“Thank you?” I asked. “For what?”
The biker looked down at Emily’s grave, and for the first time, I saw the tears standing in his eyes.
