For three years after my husband Daniel died, our son Tyler held on to one gift more tightly than anything else: a blue mountain bike his dad had given him before he passed. To most people, it was just a child’s bike. To Tyler, it was the closest thing he had to another ride with his father.
He was 10, and he treated that bike like something sacred. He wiped it down every weekend, kept it out of the rain, and checked the tires as if he were caring for a piece of Daniel himself. So when I heard metal crunching in our front yard one afternoon, I knew before I even reached the window that something was terribly wrong.
The Accident That Wasn’t Treated Like One
It happened quickly. Our puppy, Biscuit, had gotten stuck behind some tools in the shed, and Tyler ran to help him. In the rush, he left the bike on the lawn for a few minutes.
While we were focused on getting the frightened puppy free, our neighbor Carol drove across our yard instead of staying on the road. Her car went straight over Tyler’s bike.