I watched my elderly neighbor get abandoned by his own children—and then I watched a group of bikers step in and give him back his dignity.
My name is Margaret. I’ve lived next door to Harold Peterson for thirty-two years. I watched him raise his kids, bury his wife, and slowly grow old in the house he built with his own hands. Harold was a carpenter his entire life—strong, honest, generous to a fault. Now he’s ninety-one, wheelchair-bound, living on a pension that barely covers the bills.
Last month, I watched his children decide he wasn’t worth saving.