And then there were the people.
Men and women in leather jackets, some with patches, some with bandanas, all moving with a kind of quiet purpose. They weren’t loud or rowdy like the stereotypes you see in movies. They were focused.
And they were painting the house.
Pink.
Bright, unmistakable pink.
I stood there for a moment, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. My first reaction wasn’t curiosity—it was confusion mixed with a flicker of anger.
Who were these people? Why were they here? And why, of all things, were they painting my mother’s house?
I didn’t know any of them.
---
### Confrontation, or Something Like It
I walked toward them, my steps uncertain but determined. One of the bikers noticed me and nodded, as if he had been expecting me.
“Can I help you?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
He looked at me for a moment, then said something that caught me completely off guard.
“You must be her kid.”
Not *your mother*. Not her name. Just *her*.
And somehow, that made it more personal.
“Yes,” I said cautiously. “Who are you?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gestured toward the house, now half-covered in fresh pink paint.
“She always wanted it this color,” he said.
