When I was 21, I worked as a cashier at a gas station.

I was a single mom, and I was doing whatever I could to support myself and my three year old son.

I drove to work in my rusty Datsun 210, dependable with a stick shift and a functional engine, but no AC. In the Deep South, swampy summers made for a sweaty commute.

My son and I would be wearing shorts and tank tops, windows down, blasting music as we went down the road, singing along to 90’s contemporary Christian music. I was trying to find a way to be positive in my very difficult life. Once I dropped him at the sitters and got to work, I’d change into my uniform.

I was also working part time at a pizza place, but I was barely making ends meet.

I had several regulars that came through the gas station. One was a giant redheaded man, rumbling up on his motorcycle to buy cigarettes. He looked downright scary with his wild hair and unkempt beard, but I soon discovered he was just a big softy.

We would talk for a few minutes whenever he came in. He looked out for me – I was 21, but looked much younger. He always worried about “such a pretty girl working alone”, as I worked solo those days- even on night shifts.

Two days after Thanksgiving that year, I received a call at work from my son’s aunt, informing me that my son’s father had been killed in a car accident.

I collapsed. Hysterical, I called my boss and told him I needed to leave immediately. He tried to refuse, but I told him I was locking the store in 15 minutes. I stayed, hysterically crying, strangers consoling me, until he arrived and I left.

I went to my boyfriend’s to gather myself and plan a way to get home for the funeral of my first love, the father of my child.

I had no money. I had no way to get any money. My boyfriend’s roommate had picked up some random chick at a bar that night – she was willing to give me money for my flight home. Her generosity for a complete stranger touched me.

My boyfriend bought my plane ticket. My son was too old to fly in my lap for free, so my friend from the pizza shop offered to keep him.

I was distraught.

The next day I had to work. I was distracted, but determined to get through my shift.

The biker came in that day, and he could tell immediately that something was wrong. In between customers, I told him what had happened, and that I was leaving the next day to fly home.

He asked me if I had cash to fly with. I looked at him, puzzled. I admitted I had no money.

Without hesitation, he pulled $50 out of his wallet and handed it to me.

There was no way I should travel without cash, he insisted.

So, on the ticket from my boyfriend, the childcare of a friend, and $50 from a kind hearted biker, I was able to say goodbye to my first love.

I was able to get closure. To hug his family. To fly to my hearts home and painfully close a chapter to a book I thought might have a different ending… some day.

I will never forget the kindness and humanity of these people in my life during this horrible time.

All these years later, I have forgotten the name of the biker who cared so much.

I have never forgotten his generosity.

If I feel like someone is in need and I can make it better somehow, I do what I am able to.

The biker taught me not to judge a book by its cover, and that a little kindness goes a long, long way.