Nobody expected fifty bikers at my son’s funeral. Least of all the four teenagers who put him there.

I’m not a crier. Twenty-six years as a high school janitor taught me to keep my emotions locked down tight. But when that first Harley rumbled into the cemetery parking lot, followed by another, then another, until the whole place vibrated with thunder—that’s when I finally broke.

My fourteen-year-old boy, Mikey, had hanged himself in our garage. The note he left mentioned four classmates by name. “I can’t take it anymore, Dad,” he’d written. “They won’t stop. Every day they say I should kill myself. Now they’ll be happy.”

The police called it “unfortunate but not criminal.” The school principal offered “thoughts and prayers” then suggested we have the funeral during school hours to “avoid potential incidents.”

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.

“Heard about your boy,” he said, standing awkward on our porch. “My nephew did the same thing three years back. Different school, same reason.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded.

“Thing is,” Sam continued, looking past me like the words hurt to say, “nobody stood up for my nephew. Not at the end, not after. Nobody made those kids face what they did.”

He handed me a folded paper with a phone number. “You call if you want us there. No trouble, just… presence.”

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I didn’t call. Not at first. But the night before the funeral, I found Mikey’s journal. Pages of torment. Screenshots of text messages telling my gentle, struggling son to “do everyone a favor and end it.”