They waited until I was burying my wife to deliver their final blow. My Harley—the same bike Barbara had helped me choose, the one we’d ridden across 15 states—was vandalized during her funeral service. The message was clear: You don’t belong here.
Cedar Hills had never welcomed us. Not really. Our daughter thought this affluent neighborhood would be “better” for Barbara’s care. But from day one, the HOA harassed me about my Electra Glide. Too loud. Too visible. Too “blue-collar.” Barbara, even sick, defended me. “He’s ridden that bike longer than you’ve lived here,” she once told Howard, the HOA president.
After the funeral, as I surveyed the damage, Howard watched from a distance, smug. When he later pretended to console me, I cut him off. “Funny how this happened when I was saying goodbye to the only person who ever mattered here.”
The bike can be repaired. But the malice behind this? That’s permanent.
