Mom’s bike sat there in the garage, virtually untouched. Every time we’d visit, I glared at it. It taunted me, a reminder of difficult days.

But that bike. It was like a scar. Mom had bought it while she and Dad were separated. It was hard for me to accept the image of her bike riding down the beach boardwalk while all our hearts had sat at home, broken.

They reunited long ago, and God did a ton of healing. But scars have a way of making old wounds ache.

After mom passed away last fall, I didn’t know what to think about the bike.